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THE MERCY OF FATE 






















THE 

MERCY 
OF FATE 


By THOMAS McKEAN 

Author of “The Master Influence” 



NEW YORK 

WESSELS & BISSELL CO. 

1910 


•** 1 * 

Ti « . 


✓1 Xj-v 




Copyright 1010, by 
WESSELS & BISSELL CO. 
October 



THE PREMIER PRESS 
NEW YORK 


© Cl, A 2 7 1 9 4 6 


What is life when love is flown ? 

We breathe, indeed, we grieve, we sigh, 
And seem to live, and yet we die ; 

There is no life alone. 

— Richard Henry Stoddard 





i 






CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 


I. 

The Beginning of it All 

• 

. 11 

II. 

Stephen Returns 

. 

. 15 

III. 

Jenkins Suggests 

. 

. 35 

IV. 

Louisa’s Ambition Gratified 

. 

. 51 

V. 

The Stage-Manager and the Actress 

. 69 

VI. 

Mary is Disappointed 

. 

. 89 

VII. 

Louisa in New Quarters 

. 

. 107 

VIII. 

The Beginning of a Career . 

. 

. 117 

IX. 

Marthe Lays Her Plans 

. 

. 125 

X. 

Widening Circles 

. 

. 139 

XI. 

Stephen Passes Through a New Phase 

. 153 

XII. 

Louisa Captures a London Audience 

. 173 

XIII. 

Society Receives 


. 187 

XIV. 

Stephen Gives a Ball . 


. 209 

XV. 

Marlowe Makes a New Friend 


. 229 

XVI. 

Biester Asks a Question 


. 253 

XVII. 

Mrs. Wright Gives a Tea 


. 267 

XVIII. 

The Result of a Meeting 


. 283 

XIX. 

An Advertisement Answered 


. 297 

XX. 

A Struggle Between Love and 

Duty 

. 309 

XXI. 

The Dawn of To-morrow 


. 321 

XXII. 

Marthe Writes a Letter 

• 

. 329 

XXIII. 

Stephen Misses a Visitor 

. ' 

. 347 

XXIV. 

The Eleventh Hour 

. 

. 363 

















































































THE MERCY OF FATE 




CHAPTER I 


THE BEGINNING OF IT ALL 

A MAN and a maid walked side by 
side in the dying light of day. 
As the dusk fell his arm softly en- 
circled her and, drawing nearer, he caught 
her to him, kissing her but once. As their 
lips met, the maiden changed suddenly to a 
woman. 

Both were young, and the springtime of 
life was in their hearts; and though not a 
word had been spoken, yet, seeing that he 
had dared and she had not gainsaid him, it 
was thus that their troth was plighted. 

As time went on love grew stronger, un- 
til in one mad moment it overwhelmed 
the lovers at flood-tide, and after passion 
had swayed and bent them in sport to its 
will, like leaves swirling before the storm, 
the woman wept, while the man whispered a 

11 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


fair promise that he would make her his, 
by the laws of man as well as by the laws 
of the court of love. And she was com- 
forted. 

So it was that he took her forth, and 
built an humble habitation for her, which he 
wrought with his own hands. And the hours 
and days swept by in a dream of sweet 
drifting, until the man awoke and pon- 
dered. Knowing he was poor, he wandered 
far afield each day in search of work, and 
each night he returned more and more 
weary, until as the days passed he became 
troubled, for he found no employment; and 
— it was, as he knew only too well, the be- 
ginning of the end. 

Still he said nothing, hoping that some 
means of livelihood would be found, and she 
trusted him because she loved him, confident 
that all would still be well. 

Once more he went away, but this time 
he did not return until the space of a twelve- 
month had passed, and it was at their part- 
ing that the woman, sad-eyed and weary, 
clung to him, her heart full of dread, pray- 

12 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


ing for strength to tell him of the knowledge 
that had come to her of a new life within 
her; but she remained silent; her eyes grow- 
ing dim as she stood at the door 
watching his form grow fainter in the 
gathering gloom. But one sigh escaped 
her as she realized that she must en- 
dure the loneliness of the coming ordeal 
without the companionship of the man she 
loved. She would be helpless, save for the 
presence of a devoted middle-aged woman 
who had insisted upon accompanying her 
into exile, and who, she could not help feel- 
ing, would soothe, comfort, and perhaps 
help her to forget. 

When at last the man came back to the 
cabin after his long sojourn, his heart glow- 
ing with tender expectation, and the good 
news trembling on his lips that a small 
legacy had been left to him by a long-for- 
gotten uncle, whom he had not seen since 
he was a child, he found the place where 
they had lived and loved silent and deserted. 
With despair in his heart, he sought out the 
old maid, and learned for the first time that 


13 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


the woman had died giving birth to a 
daughter, who survived her. 

He could obtain no tidings of the where- 
abouts of the child, save that she was well, 
and properly taken care of, so he turned 
away to face the future with a heavy heart. 

Eventually he determined to search for 

his offspring and ( ) of the woman 

he had loved, and who, though guilty in the 
eyes of the world, had loved him and even 
died for his sake, so that she seemed to him 
to be more sinned against than sinning. But 
first he must earn enough to support the 
young life that his conscience made him re- 
sponsible for, and he traveled far in search 
of gold, digging deep into and watering 
mother-earth with his tears, praying that 
she might bring forth for him her increase. 


14 


CHAPTER II 


STEPHEN RETURNS 


S TEPHEN MARLOWE was return- 
ing to New York after an absence 
of nineteen years, a rich man. With 
the few thousands inherited from an uncle, 
he had started for the Klondike, and, after 
years of suffering, hardship, and several 
escapes from death, he had weathered dis- 
appointments, privations, and general hard 
luck, until he had without warning “struck 
it rich,” at the very moment when his for- 
tunes were at their lowest ebb. 

As he cast a reflective eye at the fast- 
flying landscape, the soft whirring of the 
wheels, the rapid motion of the train, com- 
bined with the equally quick movement 
which his eyes made as he sought to fix his 
attention on the passing objects, produced a 
species of auto-hypnotism, so that he uncon- 
sciously dwelt on the sequence of events that 

15 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


had taken place since his long absence from 
his adopted town. 

Born in a remote little village of Con- 
necticut, he had at the age of eighteen be- 
come dissatisfied with the limitations of his 
life in such a small center of activity, and 
its narrowness caused him to realize the 
necessity for a change. 

The reasons which brought this decision 
to a head were many, but the one which first 
set the idea tingling in his mind was the 
death of his mother. The result of her 
untimely end added to the difficulties of a 
situation which her presence alone had ren- 
dered bearable. 

His mother, who had also been his friend, 
had always stood out with great clearness as 
the principal figure on his childish horizon. 

When he was five years old his parents 
had quarreled, and in the curious situation 
which followed it was he who acted as go- 
between; for, after the breach, which was 
never healed until the day she died, these 
two lived silently in the same house, never 
holding any communication with each other, 

16 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


except through him. This small creature 
learned instinctively by his natural gift of 
tact to perform his delicate duty without 
friction, and was so far successful that he 
became from the beginning acceptable to 
both. 

His comings and goings were never ques- 
tioned, for he came when he was needed, 
and when he saw that either of his parents 
wished to be alone, he went about his child- 
ish business carelessly and light-heartedly. 

His faith in his mother was unbounded; 
it seemed somehow to have been born in 
him; and if she accepted the situation with- 
out question, he certainly did not feel it 
incumbent upon him to inquire into, to 
criticise, or even to seek her reasons for such 
a course of action. 

At first the lad made an effort to keep up 
allegiance to his father, but, as the recon- 
ciliation at the deathbed had been merely 
perfunctory, he found after a few days that 
to pursue it was almost an impossibility. 
Gradually, the motive being removed, Ste- 
phen felt it more and more irksome to visit 

17 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


the father he now cordially hated, for his 
mother’s death had opened his eyes, and he 
tried to think of an escape from his unhap- 
piness. 

He had always been of a saving and fru- 
gal disposition, and now he worked with 
feverish energy to lay aside enough money 
to go away. Only a few days ago he had 
received a letter from a friend of the same 
age as himself, who, writing from New 
York, begged him to come and join him. 
Perhaps this was the reason which in the 
end hastened Stephen’s departure. 

The struggle for existence in the city fol- 
lowed, and young Marlowe often found it 
hard to continue what seemed to be an eter- 
nal hand-to-mouth fight for bare subsistence. 
The journey to New York took almost all 
his carefully hoarded cash, but, as he told 
his chum with a feeble assumption of gaiety, 
“all them millionaires come to the city with- 
out a cent, just like me, and now — look at 
’em!” 

Then came days of partial starvation, 
spent in ceaseless tramping about the streets. 

18 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


He often sold papers or matches, ran er- 
rands, and carried bags, then, worn out, 
passed the night in restless tossing. 

By dint of perseverance, however, he con- 
quered fate sufficiently to save enough 
money to warrant taking a holiday, though 
the truth was that, deep down in the bottom 
of his heart, a feeling of compunction existed 
which made him think it his duty to go 
home and make his peace; for, after all, 
though he did not feel any sympathy with 
him, the man was his father, and the implied 
duty still existed. 

His sacrifice was rewarded, for no word 
of blame spoiled the peace of his home-com- 
ing. He renewed his former relations with 
his father, and nursed him through an ill- 
ness, finally receiving a blessing, as the old 
man died from a sudden stroke of 
paralysis. 

When Stephen reached this point in his 
reflections, a look of yearning softened his 
rugged features, followed by a wistful 
prayer, breathed from the heart, and, if the 
words had been spoken instead of felt, they 

19 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


might have been embodied in the words of 
Tennyson: 

“But O for the touch of a vanished hand. 

And the sound of a voice that is still !” 

As he thought of the mother of his child, 
his heart was full of a vague regret, for he 
had always felt that his beloved Linda, if 
she had lived, would have been unselfish 
enough to have forgiven him for the wrong 
done her; but, even if his sin had been too 
heinous for her to show mercy to him, he 
felt that he had already suffered enough. 

Now he was going in search of the child, 
which had been left to him, while the woman 
had been paid in full, for the wages of sin 
is death. 

He turned round and leaned his head 
wearily against the back of his chair, his 
eyes closed. He was very tired, and the 
task he had set himself would never be fin- 
ished. It would be almost an impossibility 
to find the child, for how would he recognize 
her, she whom he had never seen? This was 
to be his punishment, then! To seek and 
never find! 


20 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


As the train approached the city Mar- 
lowe looked out of the window with in- 
creasing interest. How unlike it all was 
from what he remembered! But then 
he had carried in his mind’s eye the New 
York of twenty years ago! And the net- 
work of elevated roads! Yes, it was to be 
his home again, at least for the present. 
How different it would be from the strug- 
gles of the old days, so long ago! How he 
would revel in the luxuries that he could not 
afford before, and how he should sip the 
pleasures which in those other days had been 
denied to him! 

He smiled somewhat wistfully, for life 
had been full of bitterness for him, of grop- 
ing in dark places. 

His mind reverted to his present plans, 
and for the next few minutes he occupied 
himself trying to decide to what hotel he 
would go. 

New York at last! In a few minutes the 
train would come to a stop. Marlowe’s 
spirits were rising, the past was becoming 
dim and shadowy, while the present loomed 

21 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


forth big and slightly overwhelming, but 
full of promise. 

The porter offered to take his bag and 
carry it out to the platform for him, but 
Stephen resisted and held on to it, remark- 
ing facetiously that “to-morrow’s baking 
day, and I got my dough in there;” so he 
picked it up, and placed it on his knees. 
As he did so, the train glided into the 
shed. 

Stephen Marlowe was a tall man with a 
kindly though rather suspicious pair of 
black eyes, and although he moved easily 
and with a certain grace, his figure was 
somewhat gaunt, possessing that very lean- 
ness which betokens great endurance and 
strength. As a matter of fact, he was al- 
ways in perfect health. His firm will had 
enabled him to pass through many hard- 
ships, and his fresh though rugged skin told 
plainly .enough that his life had not been an 
easy one. He was not accustomed to lie on 
beds of roses, though he was determined to 
try the effect of something resembling one 
soon, for he felt the need of a good rest, 

22 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


having just completed an unbroken journey 
of five days. 

With his dark suit, dark overcoat, his 
loosely rolled umbrella, his stout gloves, his 
soft black hat pushed back from his fore- 
head, and carrying his precious black bag, 
he made a picturesque figure walking along 
among the crowd of passengers, porters, and 
others who thronged the narrow arrival plat- 
form of the Grand Central Station in New 
York. 

The bustle and confusion did not seem to 
annoy him ; indeed, he did not appear aware 
of it, for with quiet insistence he pushed his 
way on, and, hailing the first hansom he saw, 
stepped into it, directing the driver to take 
him to a world-famed hotel, where he had 
been told he could get the best for his 
money. 

A new life appeared to be opening allur- 
ingly before him, and he smiled broadly as 
the conveyance lurched on its perilous way 
along 42nd Street. He drew several deep 
breaths as the cab bowled on, his expres- 
sive eyes showing approval as the driver 

23 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


drove on one wheel around cable cars, or 
avoided by a hair’s-breadth what seemed 
like an almost inevitable collision with other 
cabs, dray teams, or foot passengers, the 
latter crossing the street under the very feet 
of prancing horses, which were often driven 
recklessly through the crowded thorough- 
fare. 

It was splendid, it was wonderful, and the 
whole scene suddenly appealed to the new 
feeling of freedom which he had uncon- 
sciously assumed. 

A new sense of elation possessed him. He 
was excited though outwardly calm, and all 
at once he made up his mind to become an 
important atom in the life of this great 
roaring city. He would learn from it and 
absorb the essence of its life. 

He was to be one of the many thousands 
in it, and his mind teemed with many plans 
for its conquest. 

So engrossed was Stephen when the driver 
drew up at the hotel, that he glanced inquir- 
ingly at the liveried porter who stood there 
to help him alight. 


24 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


With a curious glance, half of timidity, 
and half of wonder, he surveyed the man, 
then, with a laugh he jumped from the cab 
and paid the driver. He entered the build- 
ing and found himself directly in the hall. 

He looked about him leisurely, saw the 
dining-room on his right, with its tiny tables, 
its immaculate service of napery and plate, 
and somehow felt that he did not belong 
here. He felt out of place, but squared his 
shoulders and turned sharply to the left in 
response to a softly murmured direction 
that the desk was just beside him. 

What if he could not get a room! What 
if they would refuse him on account of his 
clothes ! Well, they were the best that could 
be bought in Seattle, and it was nobody’s 
business how much they had cost. By dint 
of will, he conquered a momentary embar- 
rassment, and listened attentively to the con- 
versation of a gentleman who was just 
ahead of him; but as his period of waiting 
drew to a close he grew more and more 
nervous. He stood there feeling very much 
like a schoolboy who was patiently awaiting 

25 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


a predestined summons to appear before 
the headmaster of his school. He had no 
means of knowing why he had been sent for, 
nor what was expected of him, only that he 
was becoming very uncomfortable, and 
longed for the ordeal to be over. His in- 
creasing nervousness made it almost impos- 
sible for him to hear what the other man 
was saying. The conversation seemed in- 
terminable, and Stephen began to fidget and 
shuffle his feet. He turned away his head 
and almost encountered the eye of the ser- 
vant, who was standing near his bag, ready 
at any moment to take it and its owner to 
one of the floors above, and he frowned 
angrily, for he fancied he detected a look of 
amusement on the man’s face. 

Almost before he knew it, he had been 
assigned to a room, and he and his modest 
belongings were shot up in the eleva- 
tor. 

The room was in his opinion very beau- 
tiful, and indeed was in excellent taste. He 
walked across it and looked out of the win- 
dow, then moved mechanically into the fcath- 

26 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


room. He had not remembered asking for 
such a luxury, but here it was, so let it 
stay. He uttered the last few words aloud 
as he turned to re-enter the room again, and 
the boy who had waited to see whether the 
room would suit, thinking the words were 
addressed to him and that the gentleman 
was satisfied, carried the bag over to a table, 
where he deposited it. Stephen wondered 
why the lad did not go, as he stood by the 
door for a few minutes in the attitude of one 
trying to remember something; he wished 
he would, for he was beginning to make him 
feel uncomfortable. Stephen was just about 
to open his lips and ask him what the great 
snakes he was waiting there for, looking like 
an ape, when the boy, apparently divining 
that nothing was coming his way in the 
shape of a tip,- turned the handle of the door 
with the remark that he would send the 
“valley.” This observation Marlowe did 
not of course understand, but as soon as the 
door was closed he sat down on the sofa, 
pushed his hat still farther back on his head, 
and, resting his chin in the palms of his 

27 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


hands, gave himself up to gloomy reflec- 
tions. 

His former buoyant mood had been like 
a house of cards, and now it was going to 
fall down. It was all his own fault — he had 
no business to come to this hotel, for he was 
only a plain man and felt he was out of his 
depth; besides, it was intensely disagreeable 
to feel that he was being continually laughed 
at. 

The truth was that Stephen Marlowe was 
a very fair imitation of a gentleman at heart, 
or else he would not have felt the least 
necessity for making any reparation to the 
little being for whose advent into the world 
he had been responsible. Clearly it must be 
his business to seek, and, when he had found 
the child, to do all in his power to make her 
life happy. If she were in want or distress, 
he could luckily relieve that, for he had more 
money than he knew what to do with. What 
could not money do, if only he had the bene- 
fit of some one else’s experience! But 
whose? 

As if in answer to his thought the door 
28 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


opened after a gentle knock and the valet 
entered. 

Stephen rose, and faced about with an 
expression which might indicate that he was 
on the brink of a decision. 

“Say!” he drawled, “get me something to 
eat up here, and get it quick. I’m about 
petered out.” 

“I’ll send the floor waiter, sir!” 

“Good!” replied Marlowe, rubbing his 
hands; and then, as if struck by a sudden 
idea, “and — see here, do you want to talk 
business with me, now? I’m only a kid 
though I’m over forty, and I need a mother’s 
helper.” 

The bewildered servant bowed. 

After a few minutes’ talk, during which 
the Englishman strove to make out the full 
meaning of the other’s words, he sufficiently 
recovered himself to realize that he had 
agreed to enter the service of Mr. Stephen 
Marlowe as his valet for the handsome com- 
pensation of eighty dollars a month, and 
everything found. 

Jenkins found his new master a study, 
29 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


for he used a strange language, though little 
by little he began to comprehend that he was 
being given a short account of his master’s 
life during his long absence from New York. 

There was a good deal that was quaintly 
simple about this man, he thought, who 
spoke of his experiences, almost as a child 
would. Jenkins smiled sympathetically as 
he followed the other’s narrative with grow- 
ing comprehension, and he felt that he might 
become attached to Marlowe as time passed. 

Stephen had reached the point in his story 
where his father’s death and the subsequent 
sale of the old home had brought him back 
to a new starting-point in his career. He 
said that he was completely stunned to find 
that all the cash had gone to pay debts of 
which he was ignorant, and was overcome at 
first because he had not enough money to 
take him back to the city he had grown to 
love. He said as New York had become his 
home he had been disappointed not to be 
able to go back there, but it was foolish to 
cry over spilled milk, and much better to sit 
up and grin as if one liked it. As this ap- 

30 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


peared to be a question, Jenkins bowed and 
thanked his employer, who continued to 
speak with astounding volubility. Just as 
his thoughts, he said, had begun to crowd in 
on him and make him nearly crazy, a letter 
had brought him the welcome and surprising 
news that some old uncle had died and left 
him three thousand dollars. After remark- 
ing that this piece of luck had almost made 
him feel as if he were going to have an 
attack of brain fever, he went on to say he 
had tried to come to some conclusion as to 
how he should dispose of the money. He 
told Jenkins that for a moment he was 
tempted to blow it all in, as the one person 
he could have helped had died. Suddenly he 
paused in indecision and then continued, 
“Go to the Waldorf and live on champagne 
for a week;” and here he became so involved 
that the servant could not get a clear idea of 
what he was talking about. There was some 
one else he had to find who might be glad to 
see some of his money, only he decided he 
had to make a lot before it would be of any 
use, and that was why he had gone out West 
31 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


in search of gold. He was glad now he had 
done so. 

What it was that had held him back from 
blurting out the whole of his history to his 
newly acquired servant, he could not say. 
He was anxious to tell him all and ask his 
advice, but somehow the words stuck in his 
throat, and he could not go on. Perhaps 

later on, when he knew the man better 

well, he would see ! 

“And now, young man,” he said in con- 
clusion, “that’s all, except to hustle along 
that grub.” 

“The waiter, sir — ” began Jenkins anx- 
iously. 

“Git!” said Marlowe quietly, but with a 
certain amount of force, and the servant fled 
from the room. 

Reinforced by an excellent dinner, and 
further strengthened by a good cigar, Ste- 
phen resisted the temptation to go out and 
see New York that night. As he told his 
servant, who gravely agreed with him, “it 
doesn’t do any good to burn the candle at 
32 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


both ends, and there is plenty of time yet 
for a good time.” 

Marlowe dismissed Jenkins, refusing his 
offers of help, saying that he was a plain 
man and used to taking care of himself. The 
servant bowed, and, going out, closed the 
door as his master removed his boots, so that 
he was spared the unutterable sight of see- 
ing Stephen pop into the bed with most of 
his clothes on, a habit he had formed in the 
Klondike, where manners are not, and men 
eat and are merry when the rations are 
abundant, for they know not what the mor- 
row may bring forth. 


33 




CHAPTER III 


JENKINS SUGGESTS 

S TEPHEN awoke next morning on the 
stroke of six. This was one of the 
habits formed during the years of his 
active life of hard work, when the guard- 
ing of his own and his partner’s claim was 
often divided, on the one hand, between 
watchfulness, which meant a night made 
up of two-hour (or more) periods of 
sitting at the door of one’s tent on the 
look-out for those who would jump 
another’s claim, or steal gold from it, 
and snatches of sleep at odd moments, on 
the other. His last hour of rest had always 
ended at six, and so accustomed had he be- 
come to this habit of early rising that Hank 
Fuller, his partner, invariably found him al- 
ready awake and sitting up in his cot when 
he came in to call him and tell him it was his 
turn to go on sentry duty. 

Marlowe, only half awake as yet, and 

35 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


still slightly confused, raised himself on his 
elbow and peered out into the room. A 
gray light filtered through the thin curtains, 
and indistinctly he could make out the vari- 
ous objects with which he was as yet scarcely 
familiar. 

He sat up in bed and yawned. Turning 
on the electric hght at the side of his bed, 
he saw, by looking at his watch that it was 
five minutes past six o’clock. With a quick 
gesture he threw back the bedclothes and 
sat on the edge of the bed, looking toward 
the window. 

Then he walked to the fireplace, and, 
noticing that the fire was already laid, struck 
a match, and, stooping, lit it, for the morn- 
ing was cold. 

A strange figure he made crouching there 
before the dancing blaze which struggled 
feebly to spring into life, for he was wear- 
ing a pair of thick woolen socks, his stout 
woolen gray underwear, his linen shirt, and 
a blanket, caught up in passing from the 
bed, to throw about his shoulders, while his 
hair, tangled and unbrushed, gave him an 
36 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


uncouth and curiously grotesque appear- 
ance. 

The fire caught more and more com- 
pletely, and threw his figure against the now 
rosy ceiling in wavering shapes, as the 
crackling flames leaped higher. 

Like these flames, Marlowe’s thoughts 
soared in flights of imagination, and one 
plan after another formed in his mind like 
a beautiful bubble, only to break like it and 
become nothing. More bubbles fell and 
were shattered until again, like the flames 
which were slowly dying, his spirits sank 
and his senses were dulled as the ashes of a 
dead past settled around his heart. 

Had not his punishment begun from the 
hour of Linda’s death? he asked himself in 
bitterness of spirit; and when would it end? 

As he looked dreamily at the fire, which 
had now come back to life, his thoughts 
wandered more and more from the present, 
until he began to weave pictures that had 
but small connection with the management 
of his personal affairs. After a time his 
powers of volition weakened, until he 

37 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


seemed to have no control over the visions 
he saw in the fire; nor did he wish to exer- 
cise any restraint over them, for it was too 
pleasant to drift and let the future take 
care of itself. Dream after dream assailed 
his waking eye, until he did not try to dis- 
tinguish the real from the unreal. It was as 
if he were on the crest of some compelling 
current, which drew him he knew not where, 
soul asleep and without any desire or power 
to resist its subtle fascination. 

Some of the fancies woven for him were 
familiar, and he smiled at them as if old 
friends were near; but others, apparently 
chosen at random, impressed themselves 
more strongly upon his memory. These 
worked in more intricately with his thoughts, 
until the last one, a woman’s face, lingered 
and looked enigmatically at him. In vain 
he breathed an appealing question as she 
glanced at him, but though her lips opened, 
no sound came to him. 

Seven o’clock was striking, and Stephen 
started. He decided to dress without de- 
lay, get his breakfast, then proceed with the 

88 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


business of the day, in this case to get his 
money safely deposited in some reliable 
bank, see a lawyer and broker in regard to 
making some investments, and then have a 
look around town. 

The sudden thought which came to him 
was that he could pick up some quiet points 
from his servant, and that a careful study 
of the man, or the asking of his advice with- 
out appearing to do so, would be a step in 
the right direction. Almost coincident with 
this decision came a knock at the door, and 
in answer to his permission to enter, the 
slender figure of Jenkins appeared in the 
doorway, crossed the room, and went into 
the bathroom. 

The vision still haunted him, and he could 
not understand it, for the face he had seen 
poised in the heart of the fire, with its lurid 
aureole of flames, and wearing an expres- 
sion which might indicate a shade of re- 
proach or of pleading, seemed somehow un- 
satisfied. 

He walked back and sat down on his bed 
utterly perplexed. What did the reproach- 

39 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


ful expression mean, and why was the glance 
of the lovely eyes enigmatical? 

“Your bath is quite ready, sir.” 

Stephen stared, then started up at once 
and stepped into the bathroom. He had a 
sensation of being taken care of, which was 
certainly not unpleasant; indeed, it was 
quite the reverse, it was luxurious, and he 
wondered whether he should ever become 
accustomed to it. 

Contrasted with the present, there had 
been a great many discomforts in those other 
days of which he had hardly been aware, 
for they all had been too much a part of 
the day’s work to make much impression on 
him; besides, he had not had time to think 
of them then, and certainly not much leis- 
ure in which to differentiate. Those days 
had been too ugly, too full of hard work to 
do anything at the end of them but fling 
himself upon his cot and sink, almost imme- 
diately, into the sleep of utter exhaustion. 

That was it, he had never had time before 
to know that there was any other way of 
living; hut now, as he looked about the 

40 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


luxurious bathroom, he was conscious of a 
great contrast, and that here creature com- 
forts were at hand. 

He knew it was only a question of time 
before he would become used to this com- 
plicated scheme of dressing, and the totally 
different point of view in regard to life in 
general which he was trying to adopt; still, 
in the end he would be willing to accept it 
all as natural just as other men did, and, 
moreover, demanded; and these other men 
were not a whit better than he was. 

He looked about him again with increas- 
ing satisfaction. Just to think of such a 
bath in the old days. 

Stephen Marlowe was unconsciously mak- 
ing the distinction between luxuries and 
necessities, and this process was to go on, 
developing more and more as his scheme 
of life unfolded. 

From his earliest days this man, who had 
been for so many years conversant with the 
seamy side of life — the ordinary life of the 
real workaday world — had been shrewd, ob- 
servant, and adaptive, so when he returned 

41 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


to his bedroom and saw the order which had 
been brought out of chaos by his servant, 
he dared not oppose, but submitted and, 
literally, did what was expected of him. To 
be sure, there was a good deal of excite- 
ment in this new way of living, and its 
very novelty appealed to him. The truth 
was that Stephen stood somewhat in awe 
of this quiet man who served him so un- 
obtrusively and well; and the servant, for 
his part, found his work distinctly not de- 
void of interest. 

Already Jenkins had taken his new 
master in hand, seeing possibilities of 
smoothing down the rough edges and refin- 
ing the crudities of a nature that was re- 
plete with promises of better things. 

Accustomed to the moods of those he had 
served, he was able to gauge Marlowe’s meas- 
ure with considerable accuracy, and assured 
himself that the task of polishing up this 
rough diamond would be a profitable and 
mutually useful one. He had made a good 
start in securing such wonderful wages, but, 
to do the man justice, he was not governed 
42 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


solely by sordid consideration; in fact, he 
was not more venial than the general run 
of such men. 

It will be seen that Jenkins, although a 
servant, was ambitious, and had made up 
his mind, which was no light thing with 
him, that if there were anything worth de- 
veloping in his master, he should like to be 
the one to do it ; from which it may be seen 
that the valet was astute enough to think 
well of Mr. Stephen Marlowe, and was 
willing, so to speak, to take him cn 
faith. 

Stephen admired the neatness with which 
his shaving articles had been laid out, and 
with difficulty repressed a smile as he saw 
his clothes hanging in order over a chair, 
with his now polished boots placed conveni- 
ently near; and somehow it was all very 
pleasant and easy, he thought as he dressed. 
After he had had his breakfast and was 
ready to go out, he turned to his servant and 
said: 

“I guess I’m shy on a lot of stuff. You’d 
best give me a few daily hints on what I 

43 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


should get in the way of clothes, and so 
forth.” 

Jenkins smiled and bowed. 

“There are a good many things you would 
be needing,” he responded deprecatingly, 
“and your wardrobe is hardly — I mean it 
needs replenishing — from top to bottom, as 
the saying is — begging your pardon, sir.” 

“You’re the doctor,” was the surprising 
reply; “and now I’ll go out.” 

Somehow he forgot to say that he had 
just fitted himself out anew the week be- 
fore, for at this moment Jenkins opened the 
door after handing his master his gloves, 
hat, and unbrella, and he felt that it did 
not matter much, which all goes to prove 
that the rough diamond was taking kindly 
to the process of polishing. 

“I’ll see to all that you require, sir,” he 
said deferentially; “and,” added Jenkins 
wistfully, “might I suggest, sir, that you 
see the manager about me — ?” 

“Cert,” answered Marlowe, not noticing 
the faint tone of anxiety in the other’s 
voice, and preparing to leave the room; 

44 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“but why not get your hat and come along 
too? It’s so much more sociable.” 

The servant coughed discreetly, but fol- 
lowed his master out of the room. 

The matter at the desk was soon satis- 
factorily at an end, so it was that Jenkins 
officially entered Marlowe’s service. 

The cleverness of the man-servant soon 
became apparent, for he anticipated his 
master’s wishes, taking him to a tailor, a 
hatter, a haberdasher, and a bootmaker. 
Almost before he realized it, he found him- 
self the owner of two trunks, a dressing- 
case, a cane, and umbrella, and a mackin- 
tosh; then the valet’s immediate duties were 
over. 

Stephen was astounded at the celerity 
with which the business was managed, but 
there was one thing he was not aware of, 
and that was that Jenkins, by apparently 
deferring to him, had practically ordered 
everything himself. The question of credit 
was never broached, and although the serv- 
ant was allowed to carry the famous black 
bag, he never had to say more than that 

45 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


Mr. Marlowe was very rich and mention the 
hotel at which he was stopping; of course, 
this information was breathed into the pri- 
vate ears of the various managers of the 
firms they visited, and was, as it was meant 
to he, confidential. 

It was like magic, thought Marlowe, and 
when Jenkins had apologetically suggested 
a more elaborate suite of rooms at the hotel, 
he did not think of any objection to offer. 

It must not be thought that Jenkins was 
trying to establish a dominion over his 
master, nor that Stephen was coming under 
the influence of his servant, but it was rather 
as if he were seeking to find himself, and 
that it was easier and less confusing not to 
argue, but to go where the other pointed. 
The way was a trifle perplexing to him just 
because it was unfamiliar, that was all. 
Once he had found his level he would assert 
himself, and he meant to do so at the proper 
time. 

“I want to go to a bank — .” 

“Yes, sir. Mr. Hamilton, who was at 
the hotel a few days before you came, sir, 

46 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


used to go to a bank near Broadway. And 
Jenkins mentioned the name of a firm of 
long-established probity, whose banking 
house was situated in a small street near 
that highway. 

“I ought to have a lawyer and, I suppose, 
a broker — ,” added Stephen. 

“Quite so, sir,” continued the servant; 
“I was coming to them, and,” he went on, 
as if it were an afterthought, “I’ll take you 
there now. Begin with the solicitor, sir. 
You’ll have time to do the three before 
lunch. It’s just gone eleven.” 

“Yes,” drawled Stephen, for it began to 
dawn on him that Jenkins was offer- 
ing too many suggestions all at once. 
“We’ll get to that later. Just give me the 
addresses, and meet me in half an hour 
at — ,” and he hesitated. 

“At the Courtlandt Street entrance to the 
Elevated?” inquired Jenkins suggestively. 

“Yes,” again agreed Marlowe in his 
drawling voice. “Yes,” he repeated more 
decidedly this time, “that’ll do as well as 
any other place, I guess.” 

47 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“If you are detained, am I to wait for 
you—?” 

Marlowe gave the man a look, which 
meant that he was not to ask so many ques- 
tions; then he took the bag from him and, 
turning, walked down the street with his 
great long swinging stride, and his face full 
of suspicion. The thought came to him, 
quite out of a clear sky, that perhaps 
Jenkins was a little too shrewd; could he be 
attempting to get the better of him? 

His business at last finished, he retraced 
his steps and met Jenkins at the appointed 
place. One glance at the man’s face con- 
vinced him that he had been unjust in his 
suspicions, for it bore the unmistakable 
stamp of honesty; but still it would do no 
harm to go a little slow with him until he 
had an opportunity of testing him. 

“Just half-past twelve o’clock, sir.” 

“So it seems, young man,” he answered, 
looking at him sharply; and then, realizing 
the absurdity of the situation, he added; 
“and time for lunch. Say! I’m hungry. 
Suppose — .” 


48 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“I have a few little commissions to do,” 
anticipated Jenkins quickly, for he feared 
his master had intended to invite him to 
lunch. “I’ll be at the hotel later, say after 
four o’clock, sir; kindly ring for me when 
you require my services.” 

Marlowe regarded the retreating back of 
his servant, and wondered if the man was 
straight after all, or had he himself made 
some stupid blunder? Which was it? He 
would keep his eyes open, and this beauty, 
this would-be-slick servant of his, if he really 
were so, should find that he, Marlowe, was 
no blamed greenhorn from the West — no, 
sirree! And he swung round, squaring his 
shoulders, walking quickly down the street 
looking for a restaurant where he could eat 
his lunch. 


49 

















































































































































CHAPTER IV 


Louisa's ambition gratified 

I F Louisa Collins had not turned her head 
after she had fitted the latchkey into 
the door of the house in 74th Street, 
where she and Mary Bannerman had two 
tiny rooms, she would not have looked into 
the eyes of Charles K. Biester. This in it- 
self was a small thing to do, but if she had 
not done so, she would not have been en- 
gaged to play a small part in the coming 
production of an elaborate extravaganza, 
entitled “The Fireflies.” 

To continue, if she had not — but one must 
not tell the end of the story before writing 
the introduction. 

A brief account of Louisa’s history is 
necessary, if only to explain how it was that 
she and Miss Bannerman came to be living 
together in West 74th Street. 

In that year, Louisa, the only daughter 
of Isaac and Margaret Collins, sustained a 

51 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


double shock. Her father, who had been 
the manager of an insurance company, ab- 
sconded without the slightest warning of 
suspicion, taking with him to Canada a 
large amount of money belonging to the 
company. The sudden news of this defal- 
cation and disgrace caused her mother’s 
death. 

It was a merciful providence which de- 
creed that Margaret Collins should close 
her eyes forever before the further news 
of her husband’s suicide was made public. 
Louisa, after she had recovered herself and 
found that she possessed just five dollars 
and sixty-three cents all told, made up her 
mind to go out into the world and make her 
living. 

Then followed days of disappointment, 
till, she met, by the merest chance, her old 
schoolmate, Mary Bannerman, who was em- 
ployed as a saleswoman in one of the large 
department stores. Mary, touched by the 
condition to which privation and poverty 
had brought her old friend, took pity on her, 
and promised to interest herself in her be- 

52 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


half. In the meantime she insisted upon 
taking her to her room for the night, say- 
ing she would willingly provide for her, 
until she could take care of herself. 

Stimulated by the good cheer and 
warmth, Louisa poured her pitiful story 
into the sympathetic ear of Miss Banner- 
man. 

It was Mary who arranged for the sale of 
the furniture in the Collins house, and out 
of fhe proceeds of the sale bought Louisa 
a warm jacket and engaged a room for her 
next to her own. In addition to these serv- 
ices, it was she, who, in the course of a few 
days, induced the manager to give Louisa 
the place which was then vacant and next 
to hers at the ribbon counter. For the 
moment, Louisa appreciated the kind heart 
of this splendid warm-hearted young 
woman, and she thought it a wise thing to 
put her best foot forward in order to weld 
this friendship, in case she should need it 
later on. 

It was arranged that expenses between 
them should be shared, Mary being the 

53 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


treasurer. Indeed, she managed so well, 
that a weekly visit to some theatre was their 
reward. 

Louisa’s life had indeed changed, for she 
depended on Mary for everything. Mary 
chose her pleasures, innocent though they 
were, and took charge of her almost as a 
mother would have done. 

Miss Bannerman was an educated girl, 
of more humble origin than Louisa, but with 
an ambition to achieve something worth 
while. She could see at a glance that 
Louisa could never he satisfied for long with 
her present prosaic existence, but for the 
sake of their old family friendship, Mary, 
in the kindness of her heart, would do for 
her what she could. Her friend’s future 
must take care of itself. Certainly, she had 
been thoroughly unselfish when she had 
taken Louisa under her wing. 

Louisa was thoroughly dissatisfied with 
her present mode of life, because she had 
been accustomed to refined surroundings, 
and, until her mother’s death, she had been 
an absolute nonentity, devoting no time to 

54 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


her own betterment, nor giving a thought to 
another’s. 

She was most unhappy in being forced to 
live out of her sphere. Naturally, it was 
crude and unsatisfying. Mary, and her co- 
workers, on the other hand, were happy and 
content, for they were living in their natural 
element, unhampered by the smug thought 
that they had even time to look down upon 
others. These hard working girls were 
looking toward better things. They were 
working toward a goal they would reach 
in time, but they had sense enough to know 
that time alone would be their reward — for 
time alone, with study, spell culture and 
position. 

Louisa took care to conceal her principal 
characteristics. These were love of excite- 
ment, a constant desire for change, and a 
temperament that was naturally indolent, 
unless aroused by some absorbing interest. 

Having been snatched from actual 
poverty, she quickly recovered her natural 
condition, and became the free, careless girl 
she always had been. Had she been less 

55 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


nervously constituted, she would have ac- 
cepted the present with equanimity, and a 
feeling of gratitude, but she could not. 

In her heart she knew what she wanted, 
but she took a morbid pleasure in deceiv- 
ing herself as to her real ambition. She 
wanted to believe that she was a disconso- 
late being, so that later on, as she thought, 
some manager would give her a place in his 
company; she could then hug her ambition 
of one day becoming a great actress to her 
heart : and Louisa firmly believed that soon 
she would become a great actress, and being 
ungrateful vowed to overcome every ob- 
stacle in her path, in order to achieve her 
ambition. 

Mary loved her work, and when she re- 
turned after a busy and especially success- 
ful day to her humble home, with a smile 
on her face at the slight profit she had been 
able to make, she felt like marking that day 
with a white stone. Mary had another in- 
terest, however, which was destined to 
estrange her all the more from Louisa. She 
had fallen in love with James Garner, and 


56 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


so little absorbed and unselfish did love make 
her, that, noticing Louisa’s abstraction, she 
suggested a visit to the theatre and carried 
it out, the party consisting of one other 
young man, a friend of Jim’s, to make up 
the fourth. 

It was to be Jim’s treat with a supper to 
follow at a popular cafe, and, by the 
alacrity with which Louisa accepted the in- 
vitation, and the pleased expression Mary 
saw light up her friend’s face, she felt that 
she had hit on just the plan to cheer up the 
girl, but if she had only known it, these 
visits to the theatre were luring her charge 
onward to what was fast becoming an ob- 
session; for Louisa’s love for the stage as a 
diversion from the dreadful monotony of 
her usual life of toil, was fast becoming an 
absolute necessity to her existence. 

The smell of the theatre was in her nos- 
trils, the glare of the footlights shone figu- 
ratively in her eyes, so that her perspective, 
narrow at first, broadened out in fancy as 
she imagined herself part and parcel of the 
stage and its life. 


57 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


The party should have been a success, 
for the house was a brilliant one — people 
of distinction, of wealth, or others famous 
for some cherished eccentricity, being pres- 
ent in the boxes, all of whom were being 
pointed out by Jim with just the proper 
amount of the true republican spirit before 
the curtain rose. But somehow this little 
group of four was evidently not congenial, 
for Mary was absorbed in her lover, seeing 
the play only through his eyes; while the 
young man, finding Louisa strangely quiet 
and more repressed as the play proceeded, 
voted the show a poor one and began to 
wonder why he had come. 

What did she mean to imply by her atti- 
tude? Had he been guilty of any rudeness 
to her? He could remember none. Harry 
Vantine was well known for his courtesy to 
women, and, when the two girls had joined 
Jim and himself, it was natural for Mary 
and Jim to move on ahead, while he had re- 
spectfully taken Louisa’s arm, and, match- 
ing his steps to hers, followed the others. 

Harry looked furtively at Louisa and 

58 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


noted that as she, half turned away from 
him, regarded the stage with eyes wide open 
and intent, she was totally absorbed by it 
all and oblivious to her surroundings. He 
thought her eyes were beautiful, and he 
was considered a connoisseur in such mat- 
ters; but how the pupils had grown, and 
how the eyes themselves shone and glittered. 
He was not quite certain whether he liked 
that or not. Her hair, too, naturally wavy 
and black, was surmounted by a simple 
black hat with white feathers, and her dress 
and jacket, both in excellent taste, yet had 
an air of distinction about them not often 
seen in girls of her class, and he wondered. 
Indeed, such elegance was rarely observed 
by him outside of the Coats and Wraps, in 
which department he was employed as sec- 
ond assistant manager. On the whole, she 
was the swellest thing he had seen for a long 
time, always excepting the models in the 
daily hints from Paris, with which he was 
expected to familiarize himself once a week; 
hut somehow she was rather like those 
women with their inane expressions, their 

59 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


long willowy figures, except that she was 
quite different in some subtle, fascinating 
way, and it was quite evident that she did 
not belong naturally to his set. However, 
that did not explain her manner to him. 
What on earth had happened to make her 
so cold and distant? If she was too proud 
and stuckup for them — and he looked af- 
fectionately at the other couple who were 
happily billing and cooing, paying not the 
slightest attention to the play — why, she 
had better not have come. 

She would only answer him in monosyll- 
ables, and these grew colder and more de- 
tached as the evening proceeded, until 
Vantine was not sorry when the curtain fell 
at the end of the last act. 

Harry was grieved to think Louisa failed 
to appreciate his efforts in giving her, as he 
thought, a most enjoyable evening. Why, 
she ought to be with those monkeys in the 
boxes, instead of up here in the gallery. 
She should treat a fellow trying his level 
best to be nice to her, as if she liked it, in- 
stead of making him feel like this. 

60 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


In an instant, however, all was changed. 
To Harry’s surprise, Louisa did not offer 
any resistance to the pressure of his arm 
upon hers, but turned at once to him quite 
confidingly, as he thought, and apologized 
for her absorption. 

“Wasn’t Mabelle String wonderful in the 
second act?” she inquired gaily. 

“She was entirely perfect,” was the 
studied reply, though he determined to 
pocket his pride and play up to her if she 
gave him half a chance. 

“Just to think of the applause she got,” 
murmured Louisa dreamily. “I wonder 
how she felt ” 

“Oh, she’s the whole show,” broke in Van- 
tine quickly; “but I guess she’s used to it 
by now. You see she’s been on the stage 
for a long time, and she’s the girl that knows 
the ropes and can pull the wires, too. She 
ain’t no chicken, though. Why, they say 
she’s likely to be a way past thirty, and 
that’s getting on for an actress, you know.” 

“I wish I knew her,” exclaimed Miss Col- 
lins, passionately. 


61 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“I understand,” chimed in Vantine, as if 
he understoood completely; “and say, I 
often feel stagey when I strike the concrete 
after a strong show like that. I know how 
you feel. Lou don’t want to agree nor dis- 
agree with no one, and you don’t know your 
own mind for two minutes running. All 
the people you see, too, seem just — dead 
common. Ah, I know the feeling well. I 
had it bad the night I ‘suped’ at the Italian 
opera, three weeks ago come Tuesday. Say, 
for a few minutes I thought I was right 
in it, but the boys soon put me on that I 
was the false alarm.” And Vantine sighed 
in what he considered his most killingly 
effective manner. 

At supper Louisa was the gayest of the 
gay, and gave imitations which were very 
clever, and original, too, of the people they 
had seen on the stage that evening; but it 
was Mary alone who noticed that the girl 
was possessed by a strange excitement. 
The wine, however, instead of going to 
Louisa’s head, steadied her and gave her 
strength to resist the temptation to blurt 

62 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


out that she was wretchedly tired of going 
to the “store,” and to tell them all how she 
longed to go on the stage. But as she had 
practically no money and no influence, she 
must take what present comfort she could 
out of her dream, and be silent. She made 
a vow, however, that whatever spare cash 
she could save, she would spend in going to 
the play. If she did not get a new dress 
she might manage to go every night. It 
would be glorious ; and the theatre would be 
nearer to her so that she would feel herself 
growing, as it were, more and more a part 
of it all. 

The party broke up and walked together 
to the subway, where they separated. 

“You enjoyed your outing, didn’t you?” 
asked Mary solicitously; “but I hope there 
won’t be a reaction.” 

“Reaction?” echoed Louisa scornfully; 
“why, what do you mean? I was perfectly 
happy, and — there shall he no reaction.” 

How little did she realize that she was 
only deceiving herself. After all, there 
must always he a reaction, especially after 

63 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


the crisis has been passed; and Louisa was 
unconsciously approaching the point where 
the supporting dam would give way, and in 
the end she would be precipitated down the 
flaming stream that leads to destruction. 

There was to be a complete change of 
scene, as she arranged during the interval 
of her day-dream, and life was to be lived 
on broader principles; this new existence 
was to contain a great deal of luxury, of 
which jewels and dress formed a not incon- 
spicuous part. But to obtain this she must 
make herself known, and what better field 
than the stage to display herself, her jewels, 
her costumes, and her charms. But where 
was the money to come from to carry out 
this complicated scheme? Alas, she did not 
know. 

In the days that followed, her life ran 
along even grooves, and without friction, 
but at night she crept away to some theatre 
and, as she watched the spectacle, she 
dreamed dreams and lived in a world of her 
own making. Mary played an important 
role in these reveries, which were conceived 


64 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


during the progress of the play, and came 
to fulness as she went home later on; for 
had it not been she who primarily had made 
even this pleasure possible? 

Late one evening in November Biester, 
the well-known theatrical manager, was 
passing along 74th Street. As he came 
near to the house where Louisa was fitting 
her latchkey into the lock, he paused, and 
she looked up, so that the light of the street 
lamp just opposite shone full on her face. 

Biester raised his hat in a tentative man- 
ner, as if fearing he had made a mistake. 

“I beg your pardon, but isn’t this Mrs. 
Adams ?” 

“No, I am Miss Louisa Collins,” was the 
answer; “what do you want?” 

Biester bowed, and murmured something 
about a stupid mistake as he moved away; 
but when the door was closed behind Louisa 
he returned, and, noting the number of the 
house, walked away, more briskly, this time, 
and he smiled. 

He had first seen Mrs. Collins at the 
Cafe Martin on the evening she had sup- 
65 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


ped with Jim, Mary, and Harry. Then he 
had been struck by her beauty and had de- 
termined to seek her out, for he was looking 
for just such a type as hers to do a turn in 
his new vaudeville production. He had 
sought for her in vain, and despairing of 
finding her until to-night as he was leaving 
the theatre he came upon her and deliber- 
ately followed her home. Now, by a ruse, 
he knew her name and address, and both 
had been carefully entered in his private 
notebook. 

Louisa was entering upon the second 
phase of her crisis, for on the night that he 
had first seen her, another man, who had 
been supping with Biester, saw her, too, and 
he it was who had in the first instance 
pointed her out to Biester. His name was 
not to be disclosed for the present as he 
was the mysterious backer of the show, who 
had made one of the conditions of his 
promised aid that his name should not ap- 
pear, and the great manager, accustomed to 
the whims of very rich men, had laughingly 
acquiesced. 


66 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“Don’t see what you’re up to, Steve,” 
for this was the boy friend who had induced 
Marlowe to come to New York for the first 
time so many years ago, “but it’s a go just 
the same.” 

Next morning Louisa received a note 
from Biester, and when she glanced at the 
official paper of the manager she laughed. 
So she went out, excited, to be sure, with 
a new light shining in her eyes, but with a 
latent feeling of nervousness beginning to 
clutch at her heart. 

When she reached the door of Biester’s 
office, she took several deep breaths before 
knocking. A gruff voice bade her enter, and 
she went in. 


67 



CHAPTER V 


THE STAGE-MANAGER AND THE ACTRESS 

L OUISA’S first impression on enter- 
ing the room was one of complete 
bewilderment. The room itself was 
filled with tobacco smoke, which made it 
difficult to see what it looked like; a piano 
was being played gaily and almost reck- 
lessly, which added to the general confusion; 
a typewriting machine was being banged 
somewhere in the middle distance; while a 
fat man, with red hair through which he 
ran his fingers from time to time, walked 
rapidly up and down shouting out orders in 
a sharp, raucous voice; and the walls being 
papered with flaming wallpaper, with here 
and there a brilliant poster, all combined to 
make Louisa feel that she was going blind. 

Groping her way as she walked slowly 
forward, she seemed to be treading on air, 
it all appeared so terribly unreal; she was 
just about to reach out for a chair, that 

69 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


seemed poised in mid-air, when a voice 
called out: “Shut the door!” 

As if by magic, the scene assumed a 
greater degree of reality and clearness, and, 
as she turned again after closing the door, 
she confronted the man whose rasp voice 
had so confused her a few minutes 
ago. 

His face was familiar, and she racked her 
brain to remember where she had seen him 
before. Why, it was last night when she 
was standing at the door of her lodgings, 
just after she had returned from the the- 
atre ; the answer flashed before her eyes like 
a message, and she saw the whole scene re- 
peat itself with the utmost distinctness; 
then she seated herself in response to an 
order which she fancied was intended for 
her — it was certainly hurled in her direc- 
tion. 

“I am Louisa Collins,” she found herself 
saying, “and you sent for me, didn’t you? — 
at least I suppose you are Mr. Biester ” 

“So — you are the Collins girl, are you?” 
exclaimed Biester looking at her fixedly, al- 

70 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


most as if he appeared to be amused, as she 
thought. 

“Yes,” said Louisa simply, and paused 
abruptly, for as she glanced up again she 
realized that she was being subjected to a 
rigid and searching scrutiny. 

Presently she listened more intently, for 
Biester was saying that he supposed she 
was full of temperament like the rest of 
them ; then his bantering tone changed, and 
he assumed a more suggestive attitude as 
he went on to say that he took it for granted 
she could act anything at a minute’s notice, 
and was prepared to furnish her own cos- 
tumes and so forth — unless, as he added 
slyly, she could induce some gilded fool to 
part with enough of his income to do the 
trick for her. 

“What do you expect me to do?” she 
asked wonderingly, for his remarks sounded 
rather involved to her. 

“What can you do? Got any specialty? 
Had any experience?” 

“I don’t know ,” began Louisa in a 

weak voice, for the quick, sharp way he 

71 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


brought his questions out made her feel 
rather uncomfortable. 

“Can you play, sing, or dance?” 

“A little — I think;” but she could get 
no further, for she was beginning to quail 
before the steeliness of that cold blue eye, 
as many another had done. 

“Which?” and the suddenness of the ques- 
tion almost made the girl jump; but she 
recovered herself quickly, as she fancied 
that just such questions were always asked 
in the course of such a business as his. 

“I can sing and play — a little ” 

“You can, eh?” was the rather imperti- 
nent rejoinder. “Well, go to the piano and 
show us what you are good for. Don’t be 
nervous, and don’t be a fool! Come, 
Jerry, get up and give the lady a 
chance!” 

Louisa seated herself on the piano stool, 
which had just been vacated by a sallow- 
faced young man with sandy hair, and drew 
off her gloves, trying hard to appear calm 
as she strove to marshal her thoughts into 
some semblance of order, for everything 

72 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


might depend on how she came through this 
ordeal. 

As she sat there for an instant helpless, 
trying to gain a little time as she unfastened 
her veil, she tried to make up her mind what 
she should play. 

She struck a few cords, at first softly, 
tentatively, then a few more, decidedly and 
with more vigor. She knew what she 
would do now, and she suddenly made up 
her mind to do it, with the determination 
that she would succeed. 

The drawing of several deep breaths and 
the striking of the chords brought back the 
color to her pale cheeks, and her small 
audience faded away, for she was a greater 
artiste than she knew, and once more she was 
just the girl who had often amused her 
mother’s guests. They, of course, had been 
quite as ignorant as she that they were en- 
tertaining an angel unawares. All they 
knew, and all they cared to know, was that 
she caught their fancy for a moment, 
amused them, and then each went their sev- 
73 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


eral ways, self-absorbed, quite pleasantly 
satisfied with themselves. 

With her heart beating fast, she glanced 
up at Biester with a smile; and there was 
roguishness in it and a dash of coquetry, for 
she knew now, beyond a doubt, that she 
would succeed, and if the memory of other 
days had come for a brief instant, it had 
gone just as quickly. She instinctively felt 
that a new day had dawned for her, a day 
pregnant with happiness and soft desires. 
Then she began to play. First came a Span- 
ish dance, recalled from the storehouse of 
other days, and originally found in a collec- 
tion of music whose authors are not worth 
remembering; then followed a song once the 
rage in Paris, the questionable French 
words set to an old familiar American air; 
and to cap the performance, which had been 
up to the present moment a remarkable 
one, she gave two or three imitations of well- 
known actresses, ending up with Mabelle 
String’s now famous song from The Dream 
of Love. 

It was at this moment that the door 
74 


THE MERCY OF. FATE 


opened and a woman entered. She paused 
on the threshold and surveyed the scene. 
Everyone waited to see what she would 
do, for it was the great String herself. At 
once she came forward, and, taking Louisa’s 
hand, kissed it. Biester laughed as if he 
were relieved, while Louisa burst into tears. 
This was due more to nervousness than to 
anything else, but she was touched by the 
great artiste’s gracious little act, for it 
meant that Mabelle String at once saw 
latent genius in Louisa Collins. It was a 
dramatic moment for all concerned. How- 
ever, she soon recovered her self-possession 
and fell naturally into conversation with the 
woman who was destined to be her friend, 
for Mabelle proved herself such even before 
she left the room. 

“I am at the Hotel Navarre,” she said as 
she rose to leave, “and if you want any ad- 
vice, or I can give you any points, just come 
to me. I mean it, and I want you to come. 
I’m always in about five o’clock.” 

“You are very kind, I am sure ” be- 

75 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


gan Louisa, but Miss String stopped her 
with a superb gesture. 

“And see here, Charlie, don’t you try any 
phoney business with this young lady!” but 
before Biester could say a word in protest 
the great lady had waved an airy farewell 
and flitted gracefully from the room, leav- 
ing in her wake the odor of some pungent 
perfume. 

“Isn’t that Mabelle all over?” exclaimed 
Biester, mopping his brow. “In like a whirl- 
wind and gone like a zephyr. She’ll write 
me later, for she entirely forgot what she 
came to say. It was you that drove it out 
of her head. You’re in luck, for Mabelle 
don’t take a shine to everyone.” 

“I am sorry ,” ventured Miss Collins. 

“Well, you haven’t any call to be,” re- 
marked Charlie drily; “but,” he continued, 
“you could have knocked me silly with a 
feather when she blew in. You see you 
never can tell where Mabelle is at ; but don’t 
worry, my dear, you and she’ll be friends, 
all right, all right!” 

“I am glad she likes me,” said Louisa, 

76 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“for I’ve always been anxious to meet her. 
You see,” she continued, confidentially “I’ve 
always loved the theatre, and my greatest 
ambition was to be an actress.” 

“You ain’t that yet,” laughed Charlie; 
“but I ain’t a-saying you’ll not be if a cer- 
tain party comes up to time.” 

“Who?” broke in Louisa impetuous- 
ly- 

“That’s telling,” objected Biester. “But 
this much I will say, and that is, that you’ve 
got a friend you can get anything out of 
if you only work him right, and, from what 
he said, I think he’ll put up for you.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean what I say,” answered the other 
mysteriously, lighting another cigar as he 
spoke. “But I can’t understand what he 
means, for Steve is a queer dick — but there, 
I’ve gone and let out his name when he told 
me not to! Well, there’s not much harm 
done, for he’ll be round before a great while, 
and then you and he can have a talk. Take 
my advice and play up to him, for you can’t 
do much without money in little old New 

77 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


York, especially in these hard times, and 
he’s got oodles of it.” 

“I see,” answered Louisa, bewildered; 
“but I think I’ll see him first, before I ” 

“He’s a good fellow is Steve, and this 
ain’t costing you nothing. But if I were a 
girl just starting out on a new tack, what 
with the gifts you have, which don’t count 
for beans unless you’ve got the cash to push 
them, to say nothing of having Mabelle on 
your side, why — I would think twice before 
I turned Stephen down.” 

“I’ll think it over.” 

“Yes, do!” agreed Biester, rising; “but 
come into my private room, for we’ve got to 
have a little talk about business ; and seeing 
you and I are both friends of Steve’s, I’m 
going to talk to you like a Dutch uncle.” 
And he led the way into his own sanc- 
tum. 

“See here, Jerry,” he called out, “you can 
send Steve in when he comes; but no one 
else — see?” 

Louisa walked to the window and looked 
out. It was not until the manager came 

78 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


in, and seated himself at his desk, that she 
turned and faced him. 

What she saw was a very fat man, with 
fiery red hair. His only redeeming feature 
were his eyes of steely blue, which had the 
habit of looking directly at you. He was 
totally indifferent as to his personal appear- 
ance, and Louisa noticed, too, that he was 
unshaven. But on the whole, she accepted 
him for what he was — a keen, shrewd busi- 
ness man. 

“I know what you are thinking of!” and 
at his expressed thought Miss Collins had 
the grace to blush. 

“Oh! do you?” she exclaimed in dismay; 
and then, “Oh! I — am sure you don’t.” 

She had almost said “hope” and was glad 
she checked herself in time, for it would 
have been tactless to say such a thing, and 
to show lack of tact during this, the most 
important interview, perhaps of her life, 
would, she felt, have been fatal. 

“Yes!” he answered slyly; “you were 
thinking that my bark is worse than my 
bite. But you don’t know me at all if you 

79 


THE MERCY OF, FATE 


think that. I have a little of the Jew in 
me — just a dash, but it’s enough. My 
grandmother was a Jewess, but the rest of 
us were brought up in father’s faith, the 
Protestant — though it’s long enough since 
I saw the inside of a church, I can tell you.” 

“I thought you were a Jew,” remarked 
Louisa, smiling. 

“Yes, I know that,” answered Charlie, 
amused, “and I can tell you I owe my suc- 
cess to that one drop of foreign blood in 
my veins. By it I have been enabled to 
know men, all except the Jews, who would 
do me if they could; and it is the Jew in me 
which has made what I am — cautious, 
shrewd, and difficult to fool with. It is 
that, too, which has made me spell success 
out of failure!” 

“It is a splendid quality!” said Louisa 
enthusiastically. 

“Yes,” agreed Biester drily, “but that’s 
enough about me.” 

“And this is where I come in, I suppose?” 
added Louisa mischievously. 

“Yes,” answered the other; “and I shall 

80 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


draw a picture which will show you better 
than anything else what I mean. It will be 
chock-full of home truths, and I am afraid 
you will find it crude, ugly, and rather 
sordid.” 

“I am not so sensitive nor so easily fright- 
ened as that, if you are trying to dissuade 
me from ” 

“Going on the stage?” asked Biester 
quickly. “No, I guess I couldn’t do that, 
not if your mind is set on it.” 

“Then what?” exclaimed Louisa impa- 
tiently. 

Biester did not at once reply, but he 
looked at her quizzically. 

Suddenly she looked up as if compelled, 
and met his eyes. Then he spoke. 

“You’ve been wondering like as not, 
what I’ve been thinking of, and why I don’t 
go on.” 

Louisa started, and then, with a faint 
shrug of her shoulder, smiled, realizing the 
absolute futility of deceiving this man, even 
had she wished to. 

“Yes,” she said, “that is just what I was 
91 


THE MERCY OF FATE 

doing; but — how did you know? You must 
be ” 

“A mind-reader? Yes, my dear, I think 
I am. But listen, for I have somewhat to 
say before Marlowe comes — that’s his other 
name, and you may as well know it as not. 
Still, all this needn’t take long if you can 
keep yourself from butting in too often, so 
I’ll get a move on and have it over.” 

“Please go on!” begged Louisa, wonder- 
ing what was coming next, “and I promise 
not to interrupt more often than I can 
help.” 

“You know that Steve Marlowe by this 
time, if you’ve been attending to me, is the 
salt of the earth ” 

“Well ” broke in Louisa, and then 

paused. 

“But how can you expect me to paint a 
picture without creating an atmosphere? 
A lot you know about art if you talk like 
that — and you wanting to be an actress, too! 
You’ve got lots to learn before that hap- 
pens. Why, that’s elementary!” 

“But the painting — you don’t have to 

82 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


create an atmosphere ” objected Louisa. 

“You don’t!” exclaimed the manager, as 
if surprised; “well, that’s the first I heard 
of it. However, painting ain’t much in my 
line, though I know a lot about stage man- 
aging, and it would be mighty poor business 
to jump right into a situation without lead- 
ing up to it.” 

“I thought a play was really a series of 
pictures, and ” 

“My dear girl!” remonstrated Biester, 
“I’ve given up my morning to you to please 
Steve, but I ain’t a-going to waste time by 
splitting hairs with you or anyone else.” 

Louisa laughed softly and, looking down, 
smoothed out one of her gloves which lay in 
her lap. 

“I ain’t a-going to say another word 
about Steve,” cried Charlie, nettled by her 
attitude as well as by her manner; “but I’ll 
tell you this much, young woman, that all the 
pictures you have of the stage and stage 
life, you’ve got from the ‘front’: wait till 
you go behind the scenes, and then you’ll 
realize the difference. It’s hard work from 


83 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


the start, and jealousy — lots of both! Oh! 
it’s a killing life, a dog’s fight for first place, 
and you’ll wish you’d never been born be- 
fore you’ve been at it long. So help me, 
it’s the truth. I tell you, girl, until you’re 
way up the ladder and can stand alone, it’s 
a life of toil, of slavery, where you don’t 
dare to call your soul your own, a tread- 
mill that won’t stop even to remove the dead 
body that has fallen out of sheer fatigue. 
You think it’s all fun and cigarettes and 
applause and suppers, and such like, but 
you’ll see; however, don’t let me discourage 
you!” 

“Is there any chance for me?” 

“Yes,” replied Biester, “there is if you 
can pay your way ; otherwise not, and that’s 
flat! Steve is financing this show to a cer- 
tain extent. It’s to go on in January, and 
I should ask — his advice, and perhaps his 
help, if you can pocket your pride.” 

“Oh! I am afraid I couldn’t!” exclaimed 
the girl, recoiling. “It would be such a 
horrible thing to do!” 

“You’ll have to get over that habit of 


84 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


being over particular, if you decide to go 
into the profession. I’ll be frank with you. 
When Steve pointed you out and said he 
wanted you to have your chance, I was dead 
set against it; but, as he was the backer, I 
couldn’t refuse at least to look you up, and 
give you a show, if I found you knew your 
A, B, C’s. Now that I’ve heard you sing 
and play, I don’t believe I’d make a mis- 
take if I did sign you for a small part: 
only — there’s the financial question! This 
is an A-l show, bang-up, and most of the 
girls have money, or the means of getting 
it; so you see it’s a good deal a matter of 
commercialism. Then, too, you’re a lady 
born — I could see that the very first moment 
I laid eyes on you — and you’ll see a good 
deal that will doubtless sicken you at first; 
but it don’t do to be too particular — it ain’t 
classy — and besides, they say it’s only the 
first step that hurts, so you’ll soon be like 
the rest of them, I suppose — protected.” 
And he laughed coarsely. 

Louisa who had risen, flushed and turned 
abruptly away. She was almost on the 

85 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


verge of tears, but a strong feeling of anger 
and disgust shook her and prevented any 
display of such weakness. 

“I could accept the protection of no man 
unless I loved him,” she said proudly. 

“Of course, if you still have scruples or a 
conscience, you will have to square it with 
yourself somehow — I understand that; hut 
what ever you do, why, I believe it’s the 
money that counts for most, after all.” 

Louisa sat down and, bending forward, 
buried her head in her hands. She wept 
hysterically for some moments, while 
Biester looked on coldly, for he knew what 
the outcome would be. He was thoroughly 
accustomed to it, and knew to a second just 
how to gauge the duration of these passion- 
ate outbursts. 

Presently she looked up, her face as white 
as chalk, and Biester knew he had made her 
understand exactly what she must give — 

herself! 

“I will do what is expected of me, only I 
must have time,” was all she said, as she rose 
to her feet. 


86 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“You can let me know by ten o’clock 
to-morrow; after that the offer is closed. 
Here is a copy of the contract. Read it 
over carefully.” 

Louisa from childhood had been spoiled, 
and having no honesty in her make-up was 
in fact morally stunted, simply because she 
had had no moral training, and consequently 
no standards; otherwise she would have 
hesitated and would more surely have led 
up to the situation especially when it was 
a question of accepting a life which would 
make a social outcast of her. 

Miss Collins bowed her head and moved 
slowly towards the door, when, without 
warning, it was flung open and a man stood 
on the threshold. It was Stephen Marlowe. 
Louisa pulled down her veil hastily and 
drew back. 

“This is the girl, Steve,” said Biester, 
coming forward and turning to point out 
Louisa. “I’ll get out, so’s you can have 
your little talk together in private.” 

After the manager had gone, Stephen ad- 
vanced and bowed, while Louisa, with a 

87 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


faint inclination of her head, crossed the 
room and sat down in the chair by the win- 
dow, raising her veil as she did so. 

Stephen followed but remained silent, 
looking down at her, too excited to speak. 

Louisa gazed at him as if fascinated. 
Her lips parted, and her breath came more 
quickly. 

But she paused suddenly and reflected. 
She understood that this was the only way 
for her to obtain an engagement with 
Biester, for had he not told her so himself? 

A few minutes later they went out into 
the outer office together. As Louisa passed 
Biester’s desk, she told him she would call 
to sign the contract to-morrow, for she was 
entirely satisfied with it. 


88 


CHAPTER VI 


MARY IS DISAPPOINTED 

T HAT night Louisa deliberately lied to 
Mary. 

The two women were having their 
usual talk preparatory to going to bed. 

It was not until a few minutes before 
Mary left that Louisa began to speak of the 
future, and that was the actual prelude to 
the falsehood itself. 

“I am going on the stage,” she an- 
nounced, abruptly but calmly, “and as you 
are going to be married so soon, I shall have 
to think about finding other quarters.” 

“Oh! my dear!” exclaimed Mary, and 
could say no more, for she was more moved 
by Louisa’s announcement than she cared 
to acknowledge. 

She would feel the parting with her 
friend, for she had had but few wrenches in 
her life, and what would make it worse 


89 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


was the absolute indifference with which 
Louisa contemplated it. 

“Have you any plans?” 

Mary’s voice, gentle and sweet as it was, 
roused Louisa from her revery, and she 
looked up and smiled, for it was just the 
opening she had been hoping for; now she 
could tell her lie, and be happy in the 
thought that an incubus which had weighed 
down her spirits was removed, and that she 
could breathe more freely. 

“Yes,” she said, “it is the most wonderful 
piece of luck! You see, I met my brother 
to-day — I thought he was in the Klondike 
still, and — he has no objection to my going 
on the stage — it will be so nice for us to 
live together — he suggested it — I can 
feel so much safer and — protected, you 
know.” 

“I am glad, dear!” answered Mary, wond- 
ering at the sudden color which had sprung 
up in the other’s cheeks; “and what is his 
name?” 

“His name is — Stephen.” And she 

laughed. 


90 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“Why do you laugh?” asked Mary curi- 
ously. 

“Because, don’t you see — it was so funny 
meeting him so unexpectedly like that, 
when I — thought he was so far away!” 

“Yes,” remarked Mary dryly, though she 
did not understand why she should feel that 
Louisa’s mood did not somehow ring true. 
“I shall feel more comfortable about leav- 
ing you if I know you are in safe hands.” 

“Oh, you needn’t have the slightest fear 
for me,” answered Louisa glibly; “I shall 
be quite all right with — Stephen.” 

The incomprehensible pause which fol- 
lowed made Mary feel uncomfortable, 
though she did not know why, being too 
simple to give it any further thought; yet 
she sighed, and wondered why she did so. 

“You can’t imagine what a funny thing 
it was,” continued Louisa gayly, “to have a 
big fellow like that take me in his arms 
and — kiss me!” 

“Why, dear?” 

“Well, you see,” Louisa went on thought- 
fully, glancing up at Mary from time to 

91 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


time, “he was grown up when he went — 
West. In fact, I didn’t remember him. 
Just think! and my own brother, too. It 
was ridiculous, wasn’t it? I felt al- 
most ” 

“What, dear?” asked Mary gently, 
though a trifle anxiously, as Louisa paused. 

“Why, that it was a strange man, of 
course. What did you think I meant? 
You are very — strange, Mary!” 

“Am I, dear? I’m tired, I suppose,” she 
said, rising from the armchair where she 
had seated herself ; “I really think I’ll go to 
bed. Good night!” And Mary kissed her 
friend more tenderly than usual before she 
left the room. 

Louisa rose from the bed where she had 
been sitting, and going over to the dress- 
ing-table, sank down in the chair before it, 
resting her chin in her hands and gazing 
fixedly at her reflection in the mirror. She 
was not thinking of herself, however, and 
was scarcely conscious of the lovely face she 
saw looking back at her, for her mind was 
too completely engrossed with the events of 
92 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


the day to allow anything else to interfere 
with her thoughts. 

Crossing the room again, she sat down in 
the armchair which Mary had just vacated, 
and, after lighting a cigarette, rested her 
head on the back of the chair and closed her 
eyes. She was not even sleepy, however, 
and the unconscious action merely helped 
her to shut out the present, and enabled her 
to give herself up more thoroughly to the 
happenings of the day. 

What a day, and how full of varying 
emotions it had been? She reached, in 
course of time, the moment when she and 
Stephen had left together, and her last 
words to Biester came back to her with a 
greater significance than at the time they 
were spoken. She had merely told him that 
she consented to the terms of the contract, 
and would call the following morning to 
sign it. But in the light of her previous 
conversation with Biester, these simple 
words lost their innocent meaning, and be- 
came in fact an admission that she had 
consented to become Stephen’s mistress. 

93 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


Whatever she said to the contrary, or what- 
ever course she pursued. Biester would 
never believe otherwise. Suppose she re- 
gretted her decision and wished to recede 
from her implied promise to Stephen, could 
she do so? She feared not; for where else 
was she to get the money which Biester had 
given her to understand was essential if she 
wished to enter his company? He did not 
think that she should give herself to 
Stephen in particular, but he had prac- 
tically forced her toward him by saying 
that he had a great deal of money. The 
money was necessary; Stephen had it, and 
in so many words Biester had made Mar- 
lowe a person of importance in her calcu- 
lations. 

Suppose, just for the sake of the argu- 
ment, she should decide to give Stephen up, 
for she had not actually crossed the Rubi- 
con yet, and still went to sign the contract 
to-morrow morning, Biester thinking that 
she and Stephen really belonged to each 
other, could she trust to the pride and 
honour of her promised lover to save the 

94 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


situation by keeping the secret? No, it was 
out of the question. But even if she got the 
employment at the theatre on what could 
be only looked on as false pretences, how 
could she manage to save enough to afford 
the luxuries and comforts her heart craved? 
It was clearly an impasse, and after reflec- 
tion she concluded that it would be better to 
let matters take their own course, and cease 
these futile questionings, which led nowhere. 

She rose and flung her cigarette into the 
grate, feeling unable to cope with such an 
endless chain of argument indefinitely; be- 
sides, she always came back to the original 
starting point after every wandering into 
what proved to be merely blind alleys. Why 
not accept the proposition as binding? For 
it would, she felt reasonably certain, prove 
the wisest course in the end. 

Louisa took up her candle from the dress- 
ing-table and, after placing it beside her, 
threw back the covers and got into bed. 
Her eyes were wide open, for she could not 
woo sleep until she rehearsed the day’s 
doings again? 


95 


THE MERCY OF FATE 

She had lunched with Stephen, and after 
they had finished their meal he had sent 
for writing materials, requesting her to 
write and despatch a formal letter of resig- 
nation to the department store; now, as she 
remembered this incident, she realized that 
she had indeed burnt her boats. This fact 
made it impossible for her to give Stephen 
up. She was bound to live with him if she 
expected to exist, not only in comfort, but 
at all, unless she found another situation 
which would enable her to eke out just such 
another existence as the one she had al- 
ready left. 

She turned on her side and peered into 
space, finally making up her mind, that 
once having had luxuries and extraordinary 
comforts held out to her as a bait, she could 
not bear to go down the scale again to the 
same level she was planning to leave. She 
had had a mild taste of the delights that 
were to come that very day, for Stephen 
had driven her in his own carriage through 
the park, and — no, she could not, would not, 
give up voluntarily the luxurious life on 

96 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


whose threshold she was even now standing. 

Having reached this point, Louisa be- 
lieved that a union with a man like Stephen 
Marlowe, or anyone else, would not seri- 
ously disturb her plan of life, so she blew 
out the candle, and tried to sleep but could 
not. 

The next morning Louisa, after a 
troubled night, did not waken until half- 
past eight o’clock, and, remembering that 
Stephen was coming to fetch her at quarter 
to ten, she dressed herself quickly, so as to 
be ready for him. 

He was a little ahead of time for his ap- 
pointment, and when he knocked at the 
door, she did not bid him enter for a few 
seconds, and then it was in an indifferent 
tone of voice. 

When he entered, Louisa was engaged in 
pinning on her hat, and he, taking in the 
delicious curve of her throat as she half 
turned to him, went quickly to her, and 
bending her head back over his arm, kissed 
her soft white throat and bewitching lips 
many times. 


9T 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


The girl closed her eyes as if she were 
overcome, though otherwise her expression 
was enigmatical, and when he released her, 
opened them, looking at his reproachfully. 

“You should never kiss me when I am 
pinning on my hat,” she said petulantly, as 
she pushed him gently away; “it is a very 
dangerous thing to do!” But her eyelids 
drooped for an instant as she ceased speak- 
ing, and then she looked up at him coquet- 
tishly. 

Stephen thought she looked very win- 
some and sweet, and he held her in his arms 
once more in rapture. 

Louisa playfully released herself and 
pinned on her veil with deft fingers, while 
Marlowe looked at her, his whole being 
thrilling with an exalted love he never 
dreamed he possessed until now. Louisa 
noticed all these signs of danger, but she 
only laughed lightly and reminded him that 
they had better be starting, as she supposed 
that when Biester told her to come at ten 
o’clock he probably meant it. 

On the way to the Manager’s Office Mar- 

98 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


lowe received his first lesson in manners, 
for, when he attempted to take her arm as 
they walked along to the subway, she cor- 
rected him. 

“You must never do that — Stevie,” she 
objected, calling him for the first time by 
his name. “I am a lady, you see, and I sup- 
posed you were enough of a gentleman to 
know better.” 

Stephen flushed, but as Louisa was look- 
ing straight before her she did not notice 
that anything was amiss. 

In outward appearance, Stephen was ab- 
solutely correct, from his smart patent 
leather boots to his loose gray Melton over- 
coat, for his valet had seen to it that he 
patronized a fashionable tailor. But 
Stephen wanted more than the mere ap- 
parel, much as that might mean. 

Many lessons in deportment and English 
transformed him into an entirely different 
man from what he was a few weeks ago, 
when he arrived in New York. His great 
ambition was to become in time a gentle- 
man, and, as he was not ashamed of his 


99 


THE MERCY OF FATE 

deficiencies, he made extraordinary prog- 
ress. 

He had the good sense to accept his serv- 
ant as a model, and, finally conquering a 
natural feeling of diffidence, had frankly 
asked his advice about various matters which 
puzzled him. Jenkins, being a well-trained 
English servant, had welcomed and ex- 
pected this, and the results were most grati- 
fying and surprising to him. When 
Stephen made mistakes he recognized them, 
had the grace to laugh at his awkwardness, 
and always made a mental note of his short- 
comings. 

One thing, however, he did not under- 
stand, and that was, women in general, and 
particularly this woman who walked by his 
side. 

“That’s a lovely dress you’re wearing — 
Louisa,” he said shyly, and he hesitated as 
he called her by her first name. “I like 
green on you — it just suits your style.” 

“The shade’s all right — but it’s rather 
flimsy for this time of year.” 

“Still, I like it just the same,” insisted 
100 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


Marlowe, who had failed to understand the 
hint she had given him. 

“I’m glad you like it,” sighed Louisa; 
but it’s rather — thin, you know!” 

“Well, I am a booby!” exclaimed Mar- 
lowe with contrition; and then, reproach- 
fully, “why didn’t you sing out that you 
was — I mean, were cold? Come, let’s step 
lively.” 

Louisa laughed, but the hardness of the 
sound was lost on Stephen, for he was by 
this time swinging along a step or two in 
advance, to encourage her to follow and 
warm up. He stopped, that she might catch 
up with him, and; seeing the colour which 
the brisk walk had brought to her cheeks, 
smiled insinuatingly. Louisa laid her hand 
on his arm, and he misinterpreting her ac- 
tion, gently pressed it. 

They climbed the stairs to Biester’s of- 
fices, and were shown in at once. 

The manager was sitting with his feet 
on his desk, his silk hat on the back of his 
head, and the everlasting cigar in his 
mouth. 


101 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“So you came after all, did you, Louie,” 
he asked, removing the cigar from his lips 
just long enough to permit him to speak, 
but not changing his position, “I most 
feared you wouldn’t.” 

Louisa looked coldly at him, understand- 
ing quite well the atmosphere he was trying 
to create by his slightly sneering tone, and 
was silent. 

“And Steve, too — continued Biester 
blandly and smiling unctuously. “And 
now,” he said with a quick change of man- 
ner, glancing sharply at Louisa, “have you 
brought the contract with you?” 

“Yes,” she said, “here it is”; and she laid 
the paper on Biester’s desk, then drew back, 
and talked to Stephen in a low voice. 

The conversation between the two was 
soon brought to an apparently satisfactory 
conclusion, for Stephen suddenly moved 
forward and stood by Biester’s desk. 

“See here, Charlie, old man!” he said in 
that hearty way of his, “before Miss Collins 
signs the contract, I’ve a private matter to 
settle with you. I’ve given up thousands so 

102 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


far, and I’ll give the rest too, because I 
promised I would; but I want this young 
lady saved all sorts of bother — I intend that 
she shall have a fair show, for I think she 
has good stuff in her. Now here’s an extra 
cheque, which I hope will make it possible 
to carry out my wishes.” Then he solemnly 
shook hands with Biester. 

“By the powers!” he exclaimed enthusi- 
astically, “you’re a brick, Steve, and I’ll 
promise you that it’ll be O. K. and she 
needn’t worry. It’ll be all right — all right.” 

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Stephen dryly, 
for he knew his friend thoroughly, “but I 
expect my wishes carried out to the letter — 
see?” 

“Sure thing, Steve,” agreed Charlie 
airily; “now don’t you worry about Louie, 
she’ll be all right, I tell you. And you 
know when I talk that way, you can bet 
your last penny I mean to make good. But 
I’ll tell you one thing; if the girl don’t come 
up to the standard, you’ll let me off — .” 

“Don’t give me any more hot air! You 
know Miss Collins is going to make a name 

103 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


for herself, and I’m not going to have you 
butting in to spoil the game.” 

“You don’t say,” replied Biester, with a 
touch of impertinent suggestion in his 
tone. 

“I was about to remark that she was my 
find,” said Stephen quietly, “and I’ll trou- 
ble you to — mind your own — business!” 

“That’s all right, Steve! Don’t get 
grouchy. I guess she has talent, and you’ll 
have a call to be proud of her before long.” 

Stephen muttered something in reply 
which Biester did not catch, but, after a few 
minutes’ more talk, it was agreed between 
the two men that the girl was to be engaged 
to play the part of Marsilla, the miller’s 
wife, in The Fireflies. 

Then Louisa stepped forward and signed 
the contract. 

“And now, Stevie,” she said, turning to 
him, “you wait for me — downstairs. I’ve 
just a word to say to Charlie in private. 
After that I have some shopping to do, and 
perhaps you’d better come along too — I 
may need you.” 


104 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


She and the manager faced each other. 
They were alone. 

“Stevie was right,” she said in low tones; 
“you know how it is — going to be with us 
— of course you do — oh, yes! I’m going to 
follow out your advice, and I — don’t want 
you to — spoil my other life too — my theatri- 
cal career, I mean.” 

“That’ll be all right — on the dead, it will 
— I’ve given Steve my word, and you can — 
trust me! But, say!” as she turned toward 
the door, “have you thought about what your 
stage name’s to be?” 

“Louisa— or rather Louise Benner,” she 
answered, quickly correcting herself. 

She bowed her thanks to the manager, 
then hurried out to join Stephen below, and 
so missed the low chuckle which Biester 
gave, as he slowly rubbed his hands together. 


105 











































f 








































































' 






V 












































CHAPTER VII 


LOUISA IN NEW QUARTERS 

L OUISA started preparations for her 
stage career under the most favor- 
able auspices. She not only pos- 
sessed all the gowns her heart could wish 
but soon found herself the mistress of a 
really charming little apartment, central 
and convenient to the theatre. It was ar- 
ranged — for the present, at least — that 
Stephen should retain his rooms at his hotel 
and come to the apartment as a visitor when- 
ever he pleased. He had placed a carriage 
at her disposal, besides giving her a separate 
allowance, that she might feel independent 
— in fact, she had but to express a wish and 
it was at once gratified. 

The day before she moved into the apart- 
ment was Mary’s wedding day. This, and 
the event of the marriage, were destined to 
be vividly impressed on Louisa’s memory. 

She had left Mary after luncheon that 
day, her new trunks having been packed 

107 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


and dispatched in the morning by the smart 
French maid which Marlowe’s forethought 
had provided. 

Louisa had found everything ready for 
her when she arrived, so all she had to do 
was to wander around and admire the ar- 
rangements for her comfort which Stephen, 
with the efficient aid of Marthe, had pro- 
vided. There were flowers in profusion, 
too, and these soothed and pleased her. She 
had tea served in her boudoir, and after- 
wards walked about studying her part, 
or trying over some of her songs on the 
piano, for she had been to her first rehearsal 
the day before. 

She was not at all discouraged, for Mc- 
Coy, the stage manager, had given her to 
understand that if she expected to learn she 
must be patient and not mind being ordered 
about. He showed her how to walk, told her 
in a general way the business that was to be 
introduced in her part, so that, after a two 
hours’ drilling, she began to feel less awk- 
ward, although she realized there was ever 
so much harder work ahead; this was only 

108 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


a breather. In the afternoon she called on 
Mantini, the singing-master, and made ar- 
rangements with him to teach her her part. 

He was very kind, and complimented her 
upon her voice, explaining that a few 
months’ hard study would improve it won- 
derfully. There were other things he had 
explained to her, but by that time she was 
tired, and could not absorb the full meaning 
of what he said, so he dismissed her with the 
final injunction not to catch cold. 

After she had finished rehearsing and 
singing, Marthe had come and asked if 
mademoiselle would have the light switched 
on. No, mademoiselle preferred to sit in the 
dusk. 

“And I shall ring for you later,” Louisa 
had added; “but if I forget you had better 
come and tell me when it is time to dress.” 

“Very good,” had answered Marthe de- 
murely. 

“But dinner ” had asked her mistress 

in dismay, “I forgot to ” 

“Ah, it has already been ordered,” the 
maid had replied, with an intonation which 

109 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


at the time struck Louisa as strange, but 
which she had not stopped to analyze. 
“Monsieur sent word to the chef it would be 
at half-past seven o’clock, mademoiselle.” 

“But is he coming, then?” she had in- 
quired suspiciously. 

“Who knows?” the maid had remarked in 
a small voice, at the same time shrugging her 
shoulders. “That good Mr. Jenkins ” 

“Mr. Marlowe’s man,” had exclaimed 
Louisa, scenting a plot. “Tell him to come 
to me — at once.” 

The maid had gone out, but returned al- 
most immediately. 

“I regret ” she had started to say 

deprecatingly, when the voice of her mis- 
tress interrupted her impatiently. 

“He is gone, then?” 

“But yes” — this had been said very softly 
— “on the instant, even. Still the chef told 


“What?” then had asked Louisa, sharply. 
“That the valet said he must hurry off 
and get home, as his master was going out 
to dinner and he had to get his clothes.” 

110 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“Very well,” Louisa had remarked, sigh- 
ing, for she had felt relieved by the woman’s 
words, dreading as she did Marlowe’s first 
visit, and glad that he was not apparently 
coming to see her that night, “you may 
go.” 

How clear it all seemed. How every de- 
tail stood out, she thought, as she woke at 
dawn the following morning, for the night 
had passed — and another day was dawning! 

Now her memory went back to the mo- 
ment of her first meeting with Marlowe; 
then the various events of the days that 
followed had grown clearer as they ad- 
vanced. It was considerate of him, she 
thought, to give her plenty of time in which 
to arrange their apartment, before coming 
there himself permanently, for he was an 
impetuous lover, and he was impatient for 
their days of happiness to begin as soon as 
possible. 

He was generous, too, for had he not 
placed her in one of the most charming and 
handsomely furnished apartments in New 
York? The luxury and color of it all 

111 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


warmed her heart toward him, for she thor- 
oughly enjoyed and appreciated it to the 
depths of her artistic soul. 

The drawing-room door was thrown open 
as she was waiting for some one to tell her 
dinner was ready; and just as she was 
becoming impatient, wondering vaguely 
whether she had better not ring, Jenkins 
announced that dinner was served. As she 
advanced to the door, Jenkins having dis- 
creetly withdrawn, suddenly Marlowe came 
in, and seizing both her hands in his, com- 
plimented her upon her charming appear- 
ance. 

The dinner was delicious, and perfectly 
served. Louisa enjoyed immensely acting 
the hostess, and the pleasurable feeling 
swept over her that, after all, was she not 
giving to this man a taste of the life luxuri- 
ous — something he had never experienced 
before. She lingered over her coffee — ner- 
vously, feverishly, for the fumes of the wine 
she had consumed liberally were rising. But 
she turned to him gayly, almost recklessly, 
and, he, with an expectant light in his eyes, 

112 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


came to her. But — now the night had 
passed, and she knew she could never go 
back to yesterday. 

Had her feelings toward Stephen changed 
since then? No, she could not say that. 
But somehow everything seemed different; 
even she herself was not the same. Still, 
Stephen had already shown consideration 
for her in many unexpected ways, that she 
found herself growing fond of him. Other- 
wise — she could never have accepted him as 
her lover. 

Her mind was becoming more detached, 
however, until suddenly she remembered she 
had a rehearsal at half-past nine and a sing- 
ing lesson at noon; then, too, she had al- 
most forgotten that it was Mary’s wedding 
day. 

Before she went out, she sent a note to 
Stephen to say that she would be passing 
down Fifth Avenue a few minutes before 
one o’clock, so he must be on the lookout 
for her, as he had promised to take her to 
lunch. And he was not to forget that she 
and her brother were invited to Mary Ban- 
113 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


nerman’s wedding with James Garner at 
half-past four o’clock to-day. 

The morning passed quickly, and shortly 
after noon Miss Benner turned into 44th 
Street on her way to a fitting of her stage 
costumes, which had already been ordered. 

Stephen had returned to the hotel only 
twenty minutes ago, and was walking up 
and down impatiently before the house, 
fuming at the delay, for he had had a pecu- 
liarly depressing morning with his broker 
and lawyer on the subject of certain invest- 
ments which had turned out badly; so he 
was rather out of sorts and inclined to take 
a most serious view of business and things 
in general. 

Presently, however, he caught sight of 
Louisa, and she looked so trim and smart in 
a new model she had bought until her other 
dresses were ready, that his black mood 
passed as he walked down to meet her. 

“Good morning, Stevie,” she said coyly, 
as she shook hands with him. “I am awfully 
hungry. Let’s go and get something to 
eat.” 


114 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“Sure,” answered he; for so great was the 
pleasure this meeting gave him that he 
lapsed unconsciously for a moment into his 
accustomed slang. “What do you say to 
Rector’s? It’s not far. Come along.” 

Louisa smiled, and they started off 
briskly, for she was almost famished after 
her hard morning’s work. 

While enjoying their luncheon Stephen 
leaned forward and laughingly, but in low 
tones so that only she could hear, said that 
he hoped she did not consider him a country 
bumpkin, for he felt quite like one in the 
presence of such a dainty morsel as she. 

Louisa petted his hand, remarking that he 
was only a great big boy after all, but tell- 
ing him almost in the same breath not to be 
a fool — that she thought he was a good fel- 
low, and that she was beginning to appre- 
ciate all that he was doing for her. 

“I like Marthe, too,” she went on to say 
in conclusion; “besides, she gives me a 
chance to brush up my French ” 

“If there is anything else you want ” 

began Marlowe, looking at her with his soul 

115 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


in his eyes, but Louisa stopped him with a 
pretty, peremptory gesture. 

“You are doing ever so much for me 
now,” she said slyly, “though he only noticed 
the faint hesitation in her speech, “and I 
am sure I don’t deserve it.” 

After an animated discussion on this im- 
portant subject, Marlowe called for the 
check, and shortly afterwards they left, for 
Louisa had eaten heartily, and she felt she 
must have a long walk. 

“We have a good hour before it’s time to 
go to that silly wedding ” 

“Is it necessary,” drawled Marlowe, “for 
us to go to a wedding at all?” 

“Quite,” answered Louisa, as she pushed 
the door open and made her way into 
the street, where, though a few snowflakes 
were falling, Stephen felt that May was in 
his heart as he followed her quickly, for she 
had deliberately marched along, leaving him 
to follow as best he could. 


116 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE BEGINNING OF A CAREER 

T HE church where Mary was to be 
married was crowded when Ste- 
phen and Louisa entered it, but 
almost at once a familiar voice made itself 
heard, and Louisa, turning, confronted 
Harry Vantine, who stood there smiling and 
evidently in his best clothes, for he looked 
and seemed extremely uncomfortable. 

“I most thought you wouldn’t turn up,” 
exclaimed he, “at least that’s what I told 
Mary — but she said I was getting too lippy 
and not to bother her.” 

“I promised to come, you know,” said 

Louisa. “This is my brother ” 

“Pleased to know you,” said the young 
man, nodding to Stephen; “any friend of 
yours,” he said glibly, and winking at Lou- 
isa, “is a friend of mine. Now, what ” 

He was about to say, “Now, what can I 
show you.” But he checked himself in time. 

117 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“But what’s the matter with me?” he con- 
tinued almost immediately. “I’m getting 
dotty, I guess. Mary said to bring you to 
her as soon ’s you come — came. This way — 
no, you” — to Stephen — “wait here, and I’ll 
bring her back in a jiffy. Hurry up, Louisa, 
we ain’t got much time, and Jim’s as nervous 
as a cat. He’s scared to death. Take my 
arm, so ’s we can get along quicker.” 

Louisa found Mary, who was frankly de- 
lighted to see her. 

“I have but a moment to give you, dear,” 
she said, embracing the girl warmly. 

“And I have to run off immediately after- 
wards,” added Louisa, looking away, for 
she could not say that she had promised to 
have tea with Stephen; “you know I’m 
working hard these days.” 

Mary smiled, but Louisa did not notice it, 
as she was engaged in examining the bride’s 
dress critically. She managed to avoid 
meeting Mary’s eye, remarking that she was 
awfully sorry she had to leave so soon, but 
she was not her own mistress now. 

“I shall miss you, dear,” Mary was say- 

118 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


ing, “for you have meant a great deal to me 
— I have tried to make it up to you when 
you were in trouble — but you were too tired 
to realize all that I was doing. However, I 
did what I could, and — I am glad you came 
to-day, for I think it shows you must have 
appreciated it after all.” 

“Oh, yes,” answered Louisa, fingering 
the lace on Mary’s sleeve and wondering 
how much it cost a yard, “and I shall never 
forget it — your kindness to me, I mean.” 

“I am glad,” said Mary dreamily. “And 
you will give my regards to your brother. 
It was very nice of him to come with you, 
especially as he never knew me — but now 
you must go, for I hear the organist begin- 
ning to play the Wedding March, and that 
is the signal for me to be ready.” 

Three minutes later the clergyman was 
reading the simple but impressive words of 
the Episcopal marriage service, and the or- 
ganist playing a soft voluntary, added to 
the intensity which the words themselves 
produced. 

Louisa, sitting beside Stephen gazed 

119 


THE MERCY OF FATE 

straight before her as if hypnotized. It 
seemed almost like a scene in some play. 
By a supreme effort she recovered herself — 
for the feeling of disquietude produced by 
the mental picture had been exceedingly 
strong, — so that as the service proceeded 
she managed to listen with more attention 
to the responses which Mary made in her 
clear, earnest voice. 

She was very silent as she walked home 
with Stephen, clinging to his arm in a sort 
of desperation, though at the same time she 
loved the protection of his presence ; but she 
did not dare speak, for her mind was too 
full of the strange emotions she had just 
passed through. 

“I think Mary will be very happy,” she 
said at last. 

“How beautiful it is to have a man prom- 
ise before all the world that he will love and 
protect a woman as long as she lives. Still 
to me marriage has its limitations, which 
rob it of half its charms. I’m not sure that 
I should like it.” 

“I suppose you’re wanting the truth, 
120 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


Louie,” he said, “but flag me if I’m not off 
the tracks.” 

“Of course I am asking for the truth. 
What did you think I wanted?” 

“Whoa, girl — slow — steady there,” an- 
swered Steve, throwing back his head and 
laughing heartily, “you’re it, and no mis- 
take. Why — little girl, you’ve answered 
that question yourself.” 

“How could that be?” cried Louisa, puz- 
zled. “Why, I haven’t said anything ” 

“You mean — much,” he corrected dryly; 
“still, the way you flung out your words 
shows you couldn’t ever bend your neck to 
the yoke — willingly. It might hurt it, 
y’know, and — it’s too pretty to get 
hurt.” 

“But — how would it seem to you,” she 
asked at last slowly, trying to suppress any 
appearance of real interest, “if I were mar- 
ried — personally, I mean?” 

“That’s rather mixed, my dear girl,” he 
replied, still with an amused expression in 
his eyes, “because I must confess that I’m 
not rightly on to what you’re driving at. It 

121 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


would all depend whether you were my wife 
or another man’s ” 

“What difference would that make,” 
asked Louisa, trying to speak with indiffer- 
ence, though in reality she was distinctly 
interested at the turn the conversation was 
taking. 

“I believe you’re making a bluff at string- 
ing me — I’m blowed if you’re not,” ex- 
' claimed Marlowe. “Listen, if you were my 
wife, you’d be my wife, and — if you and I 
were not man and wife, you’d belong to the 
other fellow.” 

“Yes — I see,” she said, determined not to 
give up just yet; “but — if I were your 
wife ” 

“I don’t think you’d like it — and that’s 
flat,” was the prompt and somewhat unex- 
pected reply. 

“But why? I don’t see ” 

“Well, I’ll tell you, then, my dear — 
child,” he continued; “in the first place, 
you’d have me always with you — like the 
poor, bless their hearts!” 

“I shouldn’t so much mind that,” weakly 
122 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


quibbled she, though she was quite certain 
that her sentiments did not ring true in her 
own ears ; “it would be — lovely.” 

“It’s perfectly ridiculous, my dear girl,” 
he said, with a suspicion of earnestness, “for 
you to go floundering about in these deep 
waters, like this — you know as well as I do 
that you have no right to be in the water at 
all; the earth, the solid, tangible earth, is 
your proper place, and — you’re nothing but 
a butterfly — never will be anything else. 
You would only be happy, like those little 
winged creatures, when you’ve got a flower 
to gather honey from; so why worry that 
sweet little head by trying to find out where 
the flowers are coming from, when I am 
here ready to give you everything your heart 
can wish for?” 

“I fail to see what difference it makes 
whether I am your wife or your — friend,” 
argued Louisa, “for in both instances I 
would practically be your wife, and so you 
would love and support me anyway.” 

“Yes,” said Marlowe quickly, “except that 
in one case I would be obliged to support 

123 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


you, while in our case I do so because I love 
you.” 

After Stephen had left her, she wondered 
whether he was right. 


124 


CHAPTER IX 


MARTHE LAYS HER PLANS 

O N the morning of her debut, Louisa 
saw for the first time one of the 
posters announcing the initial per- 
formance of The Fireflies for 8.15 o’clock 
that evening; and she stared at it as if fas- 
cinated, for surely it seemed as if it must 
be something fanciful and unreal. It was 
hardly possible that in a few hours’ time 
the great, the longed-for “first” night would 
be here and, soon after, a thing of the past. 
She had been dreaming of this wonderful 
moment for so long, and working so hard 
to make a success of it, that she began to 
feel rather nervous when she realized that 
the day had actually come when her formal 
appearance on the stage was to take place. 

What if she should fail, and end her ca- 
reer by being turned out of the theatre then 
and there? — though this could not be, for 
her part was too small to have an under- 

125 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


study; yet she began to feel worried and 
ill. 

She returned to her flat, and attempted 
to cheer up her drooping spirits ; but it was 
uphill work, and she felt discouraged and 
more nervous as the hours dragged along. 

She had her part letter-perfect; yet she 
could not calm herself, for there was al- 
ways the demon of stage fright lurking in 
the background. She would fail — she had 
no business to suppose that she ever could 
act. Oh! it was going to be terrible, and 
she wished the evening were over. She re- 
gretted that she had forbidden Stephen to 
come to her until after the first act; he 
might have been a comfort to her, soothing 
her fears and pulling her together as no one 
else could — for he, with all his inexperience 
in matters theatrical, implicitly believed that 
she one day would become a great ac- 
tress. 

On reflection, however, she was glad that 
he had taken her, as the French say, at the 
foot of the letter — that is, with the fullest 
understanding — for he might have ener- 
126 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


vated her and made her more nervous than 
she was. 

At this point, Marthe entered with a 
dainty tray, placed it on a little table, and 
then turned to her mistress. 

“Mademoiselle is served,” she announced 
persuasively; “but see,” as Louisa turned 
away, “everything is of the most simple, and 
I must insist ” 

“But, Marthe, I simply cannot eat — not 
a mouthful, I tell you,” cried the young 
actress. “I am — not hungry.” 

“I understand, mademoiselle,” answered 
the maid, unmoved; “it is always the same 
with the artistes — they are always this way 
when they are going to make a big success. 
The more nerves they have the greater the 
triumph ” 

Louisa turned and confronted the girl. 

“Do you really think I am — going to do 
—well?” 

“But assuredly — put yourself in my 
hands, and do what I say, and everything 
will go well.” 


127 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“Do you mean it?” asked Louisa in sur- 
prise. 

“But really,” coolly remarked Marthe; 
“and in the first place, as the nerves are 
almost all of them in the stomach, it is es- 
sential to calm them by food. Come, made- 
moiselle, to the table — it is the only way; 
I insist!” 

Louisa smiled at the other’s little air of 
authority, but nevertheless obeyed meekly, 
and, after a few attempts, managed to con- 
quer the feeling of weakness that had over- 
taken her, ending by finishing the contents 
on the tray. 

“Very well,” smiled the instructress; 
“and you must confess that you feel — bet- 
ter — is it not so?” 

Louisa did feel much better, and acknowl- 
edged it; but when she asked for a cup of 
black coffee with a little brandy in it, the 
maid was inexorable. 

“It would not be good for those nerves 
— not now;” she firmly held her ground, be- 
lieving that if she gave her lady an inch she 
would lose all control over her. 


128 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“What next, then?” asked the miller’s 
wife-to-be, rather amused, as Marthe in- 
tended her to he. 

“A little walk slowly up and down — for 
the digestion — and to talk to me frankly 
about what is on your mind,” said the maid, 
with compressed lips, which she felt to be 
in keeping with her role of adviser; “and 
then I shall clear out all the silly doubts 
you have lodged there,” she added, without 
the faintest suspicion of humor. 

“But they are not silly,” objected Louisa 
indignantly, “they are very real; but, of 
course, how would you be expected to un- 
derstand how I feel?” 

“Because — I know” retorted Marthe 
with decision ; and then, with slightly 
heightened color, she proceeded : “And have 
I not been with all the great artistes — 
Melba — Eames — of the singers, Maxine 
Elliott — Ethel Barrymore — of the legiti- 
mate, and a lot of the others not so impor- 
tant? But what difference does it make 
whether they are high or low, it is always 
the same. And they were all the same as 

129 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


you — nervous, irritable, fussy, sometimes 
weeping, and again smiling and laughing. 
Oh ! I like to see them like that, for it means 
lots of applause and lots of success. It is 
the truth, I tell you! Now, you talk and I 
listen — it is a good way.” 

Louisa already calmed by the other’s vol- 
ubility, did as she was told, and walked up 
and down, while the maid waited for the 
flow of words she knew was hound to fol- 
low ; and she was not disappointed, for pres- 
ently the previous misgivings returned with 
increased force, and Louisa poured out her 
woes into the sympathetic ear of the trim 
little servant. She seemed to understand so 
well what to say, and was so tactful, that 
Louisa did not suspect that she was acting 
under Marlowe’s orders, to get her in good 
shape for the evening, as he wanted her to 
make a big hit in her song in the second act. 
If she did, and Biester had told him this, 
then her ultimate success would be assured. 

“I know how it will be,” moaned Miss 
Benner, “when I come on for the first time. 
You see, there’s no one on the stage with 

130 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


me — I shall be frightened half out of my 
wits ; I know I shall — seeing all those ghost- 
ly faces staring at me. And the applause will 
terrify me, I am sure!” 

“That is just the one thing that will not 
terrify you,” objected the maid shrewdly; 
“it has just the opposite effect. But you will 
see — and then you will thank that kind, 
good Marthe for telling you the truth.” 

After Louisa was bathed and massaged, 
she took a small cup of consomme, after 
which she must rest until half-past five, 
when the maid would come for her. It 
would be so much nicer, Marthe suggested, 
to take lots of time to dress so as to be at 
the theatre at seven o’clock, when she could 
again dress — this time in her costume — and 
have plenty of leisure to make up ; all should 
be done quietly so as not to excite more the 
nerves, for they were, of course, strung 
tightly enough as it was. 

A few minutes before seven Miss Benner 
arrived at the theatre, and went at once to 
her dressing-room, which, thanks to Mar- 
lowe, she occupied alone, and which also by 

131 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


his orders had been elaborately decorated. 

Marthe, knowing the effect of environ- 
ment, very wisely did not allow the young 
actress to leave the room until the call-hoy 
knocked and asked if Miss Benner was 
ready; for she did not wish her charge to 
talk with the other girls, look through the 
curtain, or do any of the things which to 
the novice are usually disconcerting. So 
when Louisa finally made her entrance, she 
told herself that she felt at ease, and indeed 
made an excellent impression, for the play 
was going well, and she caught the fancy of 
the audience at once. 

When, at the end of the act, she went 
back to her dressing-room, she threw herself 
down for a few minutes before summoning 
Marthe to help her to dress for the second 
act, and sat very still. It was too wonder- 
ful to realize that the show was really on! 

After she was dressed she dismissed 
Marthe, saying she wished to be alone. 

After a short interval, a knock at the 
door made her look up, and as she opened 
it, she wondered if her dismissal of the maid 

132 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


had been an intuition that Stephen would 
really come, for it was he standing there 
smiling. 

“My dear girl!” he said, and then com- 
ing quickly to her, took her in his arms. 
“You were simply great!” 

They sat down on the couch, and talked 
excitedly for the few minutes left to them. 

Then there came an authoritative knock 
at the door. It was the call-boy. 

“Miss Benner! Five minutes,” he said, 
and she, answering that she was ready, he 
passed on to his next call. 

Louisa pushed Stephen aside and sprang 
to her feet. She hastily arranged her hair, 
and gave a few deft touches to her “make- 
up,” then went to the door and opened it. 
Only then did she pause and turn, throw- 
ing one backward glance at him. 

Louisa, during the second act, surpassed 
herself. She sang, she danced, she coquet- 
ted with an abandon and grace which took 
the house by storm. She was the plaything 
of the public, and she insinuated herself into 
their hearts with a verve and manner ut- 


133 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


terly irresistible and thoroughly bewitching. 

She reached her dressing-room with dif- 
ficulty, receiving a veritable ovation on her 
perilous passage there, and found Marthe 
waiting for her, her face wreathed in smiles. 
She smiled at her as she entered and closed 
the door, for she began to look on the young 
French maid as a sheep-dog, not knowing 
that she was a fraud and hypocrite, as in- 
deed she herself was, only more so. 

Louisa was dressed for the third act long 
before the curtain rose, for she heard the 
call-boys going their rounds and announcing 
“Overture” in their shrill common voices. 
She had nothing to do, so she took up a 
polisher and idly rubbed it over her already 
shining nails. 

Tired of inaction, however, Marthe 
stepped to the door and opened it. Almost 
at once a young man stepped up and asked 
if this was where Miss — Benner hung out. 
Being told it was, he attempted to enter the 
room, but Marthe barred the way. 

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked 
in an aggrieved tone, “you can’t keep me 

134 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


out ! I tell you I will come in ! My name’s 
Vantine — tell her it’s Harry — I must see 
her for a minute — just a second — really 

“Is that you, Mr. Vantine?” called out 
Louisa, who had heard the whole conver- 
sation from the beginning. “Just for a 
second — until the boy comes — and then I 
have to go on again.” 

“Thank you, Miss Collins — I mean — 
Benner,” he answered, pushing his way past 
Marthe, who did not seem disposed to give 
him even an inch in which to pass ; “but can’t 
she” — indicating the maid — “ ‘vamose?’ — 
just while I am here — though I’ve very little 
to say that all the world mightn’t hear and 
welcome.” 

“Just wait outside, Marthe — there’s a 
good girl!” 

Harry stood fidgeting and twirling his 
hat stupidly until Marthe left the room, 
and then he walked over to where Louisa 
was sitting, looking at him with a rather 
amused expression on her face. 

“What is it?” she asked, for he was glan- 
135 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


cing about curiously. “Remember, you 
haven’t the whole night before you!” 

“I beg your pardon, I’m sure. Miss — er 
— Louisa — but I came to tell you we’re all 
out there, and I was to say that you’re way 
out of sight — that’s what they all think, and 
so do I — honest, I do — but I wish ” 

“What?” said Louisa curtly. 

“Why — that — say, Miss Benner, don’t 
give me the jumps like that; you see, I’ve 
never been in a place like this before, and 
I’ve kind of lost my — bearings.” 

“I see,” she said indifferently, “but what 
I don’t understand is how you ever got ‘be- 
hind’ at all ” 

“I was just coming to that,” he began 
excitedly — “you see, I met that man — the 
one you told us was your brother — but we’ve 
since found out what — he is to you — and 
Mary Garner says she and Jim look on you 
as — dead; but I — listen, Miss Benner — I 
love you, and I want you to consent to be 
my wife. You hadn’t ought to refuse a 
chance like this — to look the world in the 
face and be respected — and — snap your — ” 

136 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


He stopped short, for Louisa deliberate- 
ly laughed in his face; the cruelty of the 
action had stung him like a lash, and he 
looked at her in horror as soon as he gasped 
the meaning of her wanton insult. 

“No,” she said, looking at him coldly, 
“it’s too late. I’ve accepted it all — it means 
all this” — she included the room and its 
pretty appointments in her comprehensive 
gesture — “and — lots more! I’m no worse 
than the rest of them, and not so bad as 
some, thank God! I’ve chosen my mode of 
living, and I intend to abide by it!” 

“It is not too late!” he implored. “See 
— I’ll take you as my wife — wife, d’you 
hear?” 

“Glad to make me your wife, are you, 
now that I have become famous as an ac- 
tress?” 

“You are trying to make me unfaithful 
to my lover,” she continued lightly; “but 
that is impossible — so you had better go 
now.” 

“Hush!” begged Yantine, “I won’t listen 
to you any more!” 


137 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“Good-bye, then,” she said sarcastically; 
“if you really must go — why — oh! am I 
called? All right, Marthe, I’m coming.” 
And she ran out without even another 
glance at the crestfallen young man. 


188 


CHAPTER X 


WIDENING CIRCLES 

L OUISA was dumfounded to learn the 
news of Miss String’s divorce, for 
she had not known that she was even 
married. She had not the faintest concep- 
tion that this piece of news could in any way 
affect her, for she knew the actress so 
slightly. 

Why should she become absorbed by such 
a commonplace story, when there were more 
interesting bits of gossip of the theatrical 
world to read about? 

She was still in bed when she read the 
paragraph about Mabelle’s divorce, and, 
having pushed her breakfast tray aside, she 
took up the paper again, reading with avid- 
ity the latest plans and doings of Charles 
K. Biester, who, it was stated, had been 
abroad for the purpose of interviewing his 
London and Paris agents. It was rumored 
that he had purchased two of the latest Pa- 

139 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


risian successes, and a most sensational ac- 
count was given of how he had bought one 
of these plays in mid-ocean, paid for it, ar- 
ranged for its translation, made a contract 
with a well-known actress to play the lead 
in it, and — all this by wireless! 

What amused her most was a statement 
of two interviews, which coincided in time 
but not in place. It almost made Miss Ben- 
ner think the man must be a magician, or 
else that he had solved the mystery of how 
to be in two places at the same time. The 
two dispatches were reported on the same 
page of one of the best known of the New 
York dailies, whose news was usually re- 
liable; however, she merely laughed and 
turned over the page in search of further 
news. 

More about Charles K. Biester! This 
time he had actually sailed, and, again by 
wireless, had exchanged greetings with two 
of his favorite stars, one being in Montreal, 
the other in Cincinnati. This sounded fan- 
tastic, but was evidently true. Biester was 
a wonder, thought Miss Benner, for he 

140 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


never forgot those of his friends who 
brought him in money; he exploited them, 
and he advertised both them and himself, 
or, rather, to be correct, it was the other way 
about, himself always first, and the others 
last. 

True, he had been kind to her, but it had 
cost him nothing — oh, no ! That was one of 
the secrets of his success, to take in early 
and often, but not to spend — more than he 
could help. He had been kind to her, but 
only because she had helped to draw good 
houses for him. 

The newspaper, which had fallen aside as 
her thoughts went wool-gathering, she now 
folded carefully and tucked under her pil- 
low, and — suddenly she thought of Stephen, 
who had not been to see her for two days. 

To be sure, he had sent her a note, in 
which he briefly stated that business kept 
him away; he was making new investments 
and floating a new company, of which he 
was to be made president. 

Louisa had really nothing to complain of 
— nothing that she wished for but she could 

141 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


have for the asking; yet with feminine per- 
versity she longed for Stephen and wished 
that he would come to her, for she did not 
like this spirit of independence he was dis- 
playing. When he was with her, of course, 
it was natural for her to wish him away, es- 
pecially when he made her feel nervous and 
irritable, as he sometimes did now, for there 
was very little originality about Marlowe; 
and that was why he palled, that was why 
she felt drawn and repelled at the same time 
when he came to see her. 

She was perfectly aware that he did not 
love her in the true sense of the word. No 
one knew that better than she, and she did 
not really complain — far from it, for her 
lover was generous to a fault; and he gave 
her a most liberal allowance, too, which she 
was made to understand, was to continue 
until her death. 

She wondered how it would be if Stephen 
really loved her; of course he was always 
courteous — but would he in any way be dif- 
ferent? She smiled; but her expression was 
enigmatical, just as if she could easily an- 

142 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


swer the question if she wished, but pre- 
ferred to wait before she did so — for Louisa 
loved, above all things, to tease herself, es- 
pecially when, as in the present case, the 
matter was so simple and easy to solve. She 
laughed, but strangely enough it had a 
mirthless sound, and she suddenly felt an- 
noyed with herself for no cause whatever 
— at least none that she could discover, ex- 
cept that she entertained an unaccountable 
feeling of bitterness towards Marlowe; but 
no! she did not love him, never had, and 
never would. 

She rang for Marthe, dressed and went 
out. Two more days passed away, and still 
Stephen did not come. 

He remained away for a week, but Louisa 
tried not to feel worried. That night, in a 
spirit of madness, she acted with a dash and 
verve that carried the house by storm, for 
she tried to think that Stephen might be out 
in the dim darkness in front; so she played 
for him and to him in imagination, though 
her heart was sad. His absence could mean 
but one thing — he was tiring of her, and no 
143 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


woman, she told herself, likes to feel that 
she is losing her power over a man. Her 
heart leaped within her, as the house rose 
and applauded, for, after all, had she not 
won success at a bound? 

Biester, who had returned, was called 
for, to appear with her before the curtain. 
The applause that greeted them did not 
cease until Louise had made a little speech, 
and kissed her hand in good-night. And 
yet it all seemed like a dream. When she 
returned after the play to her apartment 
she passed in like a ghost, and, sinking into 
a chair in the dark sitting-room, cried as if 
her heart would break, for she felt so terri- 
bly alone, even in the midst of her triumph. 

During the next two hours she fell into 
a troubled doze, then awoke with a start, to 
find that her hat had been removed and a 
rug thrown over her. She blessed Marthe 
for her thoughtful care. Then she went to 
bed, and slept the dreamless sleep of a tired 
child until late in the morning. 

She drove to Miss String’s hotel, and was 
ushered at once into the presence of the 

144 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


great String, who rose to greet her as she 
entered the pretty sitting-room, and pushed 
a chair forward, inviting her to sit down as 
she did so. 

“I am so glad you have come,” said Miss 
String, “and suppose we begin our after- 
noon with a little refreshment. Will you 
have tea or consomme? They are both 
here.” 

“A little consomme, please,” answered 
Louisa. 

“Do you know,” said Mabelle smilingly, 
“I was stupid enough to have forgotten 
which it was you took; so I told them to 
bring them both.” 

Louisa smiled politely, but wondering 
how Miss String could forget a thing she 
never knew. 

“So I thought it best to be on the safe 
side,” continued Mabelle, carefully choosing 
her words and still smiling in what Louisa 
could not help thinking was meant to be a 
fascinating manner. 

“It is always better,” she assented dryly, 
and waited for what was to follow. There 


145 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


was a short pause. Miss Benner was ex- 
cited in spite of herself; and Mabelle, too, 
seemed nervous, for she made a futile search 
for imaginary hairpins, and blushed like a 
schoolgirl. 

“My dear!” she suddenly exclaimed, “I 
don’t know why I am telling you this — and 
you must promise not to repeat it to any 
one yet — but I am going to be married 
again — to — Mr. Van Cuyp. Isn’t it won- 
derful?” 

“Wonderful indeed!” echoed Louisa. 

“It seems so extraordinary that I am go- 
ing to be married again,” said Mabelle 
dreamily; “though, of course — we have to 
wait until Mr. Yan Cuyp is divorced. Now, 
it seems funny ” 

“Horribly funny!” interposed Miss Ben- 
ner, and laughed immoderately ; then 
paused, for she realized that her conduct 
must seem strange and unnatural. “I mean,” 
she added more quietly, “I suppose it must 
seem funny — to you ” 

“It does seem funny to me, but not in 
the humorous sense,” said Mabelle, looking 

146 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


at her guest curiously, for she wondered 
what was the matter with her, “that we have 
to wait until his wife divorces him before 
we can be married. What did you think 
I meant?” 

“I beg your pardon,” answered Louisa, 
feeling the necessity of pulling herself to- 
gether; “I am afraid I spoke without real- 
izing what I was saying; it’s — a bad habit, 
I know. Forgive me!” 

“Why, of course — it really doesn’t mat- 
ter,” said Miss String graciously, “but I 
didn’t know you added absent-mindedness 
to your undeniable genius and gifts. It’s 
a pity, that’s all.” 

“Yes,” replied Louisa humbly, and all 
at once she knew that the strain and worry 
of Stephen’s absence had been greater than 
she realized. 

“It’s all part of the artistic temperament, 
my dear,” said Mabelle soothingly, “so I 
wouldn’t worry. People of your kind are 
often misunderstood.” 

“That’s true,” agreed Louisa, and was 
silent. 


147 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“Of course, one always regrets a real 
fault, but there are other and deeper re- 
grets, which go further — things one cannot 
have — things one has to give up ” 

“Yes,” urged Louisa gently, for she had 
been struck by the other’s sudden earnest- 
ness, and wished to hear what she had to say. 

“I was thinking of a regret I have — 
though that hardly seems the right word, 
for I’ve accepted it now,” continued Ma- 
belle quietly, “and Mr. Van Cuyp insisted 



Again she paused, and Louisa wondered 
why she did so. 

“That I must give up the stage!” 

“Give up the stage!” echoed Louisa in 
amazement. 

“But I love him,” went on Mabelle, not 
seeming conscious of the interruption; “it 
made it — easier; it robbed it of its sting, 
you see.” 

“What will you do? — Have you told Bies- 
ter?” asked Miss Benner excitedly. 

“Yes,” said Miss String, “and, of course, 
he went on like a lunatic ; but I soon showed 


148 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


him it had to be settled that way. Now, 
there’s my understudy ” 

“She wouldn’t be you” objected Louisa. 
“Why,” she exclaimed decidedly, “the show 
would fall flat without you in the lead ” 

“That’s what Charlie said.” 

“Well?” inquired Louisa impatiently, 
when the other paused, as she thought, un- 
necessarily. 

“I suggested a compromise,” announced 
Miss String calmly. “Of course, he swore 
like a trooper and wouldn’t hear of it at 
first, but — well, I brought him to my way 
of thinking — I just twisted him round my 
finger!” 

“I told him,” Mabelle was saying slowly, 
“that my understudy should remain the un- 
derstudy for the part of Pauline, but — that 
you would take my place, absolutely.” 

“I!” cried Louisa faintly; “you told him 
that?” 

She sat there clasping and unclasping 
her hands, feeling as if she was either going 
to faint or else have a violent attack of hys- 
teria; but at the same time she seemed 


149 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


rooted to the spot and unable to move. Ma- 
belle’s next words calmed her. 

“If you say yes — and you must say yes,” 
she went on breathlessly, “why, I’ll teach 
you the part.” 

“I hardly know ” began Louisa. 

“Please let me think it over — for a minute. 
It’s all so wonderful — so unexpected — I 
can’t seem to comprehend it all. You know 
how much it would mean to me — do you 
think I really would make a success of it?” 

“Yes, I do,” answered Mabelle, and there 
was a tone in her voice which Louisa knew 
was sincerity itself. 

“Then I’ll do it,” she exclaimed with sud- 
den decision, and, rising, she offered her 
hand to Mabelle to seal the compact; but 
Miss String, giving both her hands, came 
round the table and, drawing the trembling 
girl to her, kissed her. 

On the way home, Miss Benner heard 
the newsboys calling out the evening papers. 
As her carriage was halted for a moment, 
she made out the news that was being bawled 
on all sides. 


150 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“Dee-vorce in the 400 ! First hearing to- 
morrow! Miss String to be called to the 
stand! Extry! Dee-vorce suit! Extry!” 

Louisa bought a paper and the carriage 
drove on. 

“So that was why Mabelle couldn’t go 
with me about the contract to-morrow! 
Heavens ! what a price she will have to pay 
for her happiness! And I — I am to take 
her place.” 

She entered her apartment, after telling 
the carriage to wait. She must rest for a 
little while before she went to the theatre. 
What a wonderfully exciting day it had 
been ; but she sighed as she entered her room, 
and rang for her maid, for this news about 
the divorce suit had upset her a good deal. 
But there were compensations. She had the 
chance to become a star in a single night! 
It seemed too good to be true! And then 
she thought how noble it was of Mabelle to 
give her the opportunity to step into her 
shoes, for the great String herself had won 
her fame by hard study and long days of 
waiting. 


151 










CHAPTER XI 


STEPHEN PASSES THROUGH A NEW PHASE 

S TEPHEN was passing through a new 
phase in his existence, and quite natu- 
rally, this was having its effect on his 
life and character. Unintentionally, he had 
deceived Louisa when he wrote her he had 
been absorbed by business affairs. He had 
neglected to tell her what he had been doing 
during his mysterious week of absence. Not 
that he had been engaged in any pursuit 
of which he was ashamed — but he merely 
forgot to mention several incidents which 
would have made Louisa see all the greater 
necessity for action if she wished to retain 
her power over him. 

Intuitively she felt that Stephen was 
slipping away from her. If left to his own 
devices, she might lose him altogether, so, 
without the benefit of further knowledge 
on her part, she was preparing to seek a 
way in which to bind him to her more closely. 

153 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


She was first surprised, then annoyed at 
his absence. Finally she determined that 
as soon as he returned she must see him. 
Then would be the time to use all her pow- 
ers of discernment to see whether she could 
discover how matters really stood between 
them. She knew she would have to exer- 
cise all her diplomatic cunning to find out 
what had happened to disturb their rela- 
tions, and she was well aware that it would 
not be an easy thing to do. 

She made up her mind that she would not 
seek him nor make the mistake of sending 
for him, for the situation must come about 
naturally if she hoped to succeed. It was 
not difficult to carry out this programme, 
for her spare time was fully occupied with 
the study of her new role. It kept her nose 
to the grindstone, however, for while this 
extra work was going on, she had to appear 
every night and in matinees twice a week 
in her own play; so she found very little 
time to devote to her private affairs. 

True to her promise, Mabelle had given 
Louisa an hour’s coaching each day. The 
154 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


matter of the divorce had never been men- 
tioned between them again, and the girl felt 
it would not be her place to introduce such 
a subject. Her visits were for the sole pur- 
pose of being coached, and she was pleased 
at the progress made, and at the warm 
praise Miss String often bestowed; so — 
there was an end of it. 

It was decided that Mabelle should for- 
mally retire from the company in three 
weeks’ time ; and as she had informed Louisa 
of this, she supposed the divorce would soon 
be granted, and gave the matter no further 
thought. 

Louisa accidentally met Stephen in the 
street one day shortly after his return from 
Chicago. She playfully reproached him for 
his neglect of her, and went on to say that 
nothing but a cup of tea could ever make 
her forget his cruelty. But she spoke so 
lightly that Stephen did not detect the real 
reproach which lay beneath ; perhaps it was 
his embarrassment which helped to blind 
him to her actual feelings, though, now they 
were once more face to face, he did not 


155 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


show any contrition and certainly no re- 
gret. 

He had not quite reached the point where 
their relations would inevitably come to an 
end. He was socially ambitious, and he 
had been studying daily to improve him- 
self, ever since his arrival in New York. 
Louisa palled upon him. Indeed, he had 
outgrown her and her environment, and he 
determined to leave her as soon as he con- 
sistently could. Then he would be free to 
live in the more moral, wholesome atmos- 
phere he craved. 

Louisa knew from his indifferent greet- 
ing that he no longer loved her. He was 
plainly nervous and ill at ease. He 
twitched the muscles of his mouth, and he 
did not meet her eyes freely and candidly 
as was his habit. Louisa sighed, for she 
could not understand all that had happened 
to bring this unhappy state of things about. 

How unhappy she was ! How she longed 
for his love, for his caresses, for the renewal 
of the madness she had scarcely been able 
to endure before. 


156 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


They drifted into Sherry’s, and Louisa 
ordered tea. All this time Stephen main- 
tained a silence that appeared as strange as 
it was sullen to Louisa, who, however, waited 
patiently until the waiter had served them 
and gone away ; then as she handed him his 
tea she said : 

“What is it, Stevie? You seem wor- 
ried!” 

“Oh! business ” began Stephen eva- 

sively. 

“But I thought the hard times were 
over ” objected Louisa gently. 

“Yes,” answered Marlowe, “but women 
do not understand business ! Let’s talk 
about something else.” 

“You are so — different from the old days, 
dear!” she said softly, with just a shade of 
reproach in her voice, “that I cannot help 
thinking ” 

“What?” he asked abruptly, as she paused 
suggestively. 

“That — I must have offended you in 
some way,” she said sadly. “If so, I am 
sorry!” 


157 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


This was purely tentative, for she was 
groping in the dark. 

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Marlowe; but 
Louisa was conscious of the effort he was 
making to speak naturally. “Whatever 
made you think that?” 

“I don’t know,” she replied, “though I 
fancied you did not care ” 

“For goodness’ sake, Louisa,” he said 
quickly, “I hope you are not going to rake 
me over the coals! I won’t stand for that, 
you know!” 

“If I did not know you better, my dear, 
I should say that that remark was the re- 
sult of a guilty conscience. But never 
mind that; listen, Stevie ” 

“Well, what?” 

“You must realize how strange it seems 
to me, that you have said nothing, absolute- 
ly nothing, about my new plans. Don’t you 
care about — my affairs — any more?” 

“Don’t be a goose!” laughed Stephen, 
somewhat harshly. “You mean — er — your 
new part in the Dream of Love? Biester — 
told me about it — er — last night, and — er — 

158 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


I was going to say — how glad I was to hear 
you had — er — fallen on your feet.” 

“I am delighted that you are pleased, 
Stevie!” said poor Louisa in low tones, “and 
I am truly glad you said — just — what you 
did. It’s nice to feel that you haven’t for- 
gotten how much this — means to me!” 

Marlowe stared at her, but said nothing. 

“I didn’t suppose I’d get so far ahead in 
so short a time. I’m very lucky, am I not?” 

She laughed nervously, but she saw how 
easy it would be to lead him into the hidden 
dangers of suspicion, and how necessary it 
was to avoid these if she hoped to improve 
the situation. 

“Of course I’m pleased,” remarked 
Stephen, “I’d be a fool not to be! — when 
I was the one to discover you!” 

“I had forgotten,” said the girl quietly; 
“but I hope you’ve found me a fairly prof- 
itable investment ” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Just what I say,” she answered; “you 
haven’t lost much by me — I hope. You’ve 
been so generous and kind, that I’ve hardly 

159 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


considered the financial question at all — I 
haven’t had to, you see!” 

“What are you driving at?” asked Mar- 
lowe cynically; “trying to get more money 
out of me, I guess. Women are — the 
devil!” 

“No, on the contrary — I am saving 
money,” said Louisa, without enthusiasm; 
“and, if all goes well, I should soon be in a 
position to pay off the mortgage on my — 
soul. I’ve paid you the interest up to date 
on the loan — but my efforts evidently 
haven’t been appreciated.” 

“I wish you’d tell me what on earth this 
is leading up to?” 

“I’m afraid I’ve expressed myself crude- 
ly,” she replied; “but as you say, women 
haven’t the faintest conception of business 

. 

“I’d give considerable to know what your 
game is •” 

“Game?” she queried musingly. “That 
means motive, doesn’t it?” 

“Yes. What is it?” 


160 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“A woman’s motives !” she echoed dream- 
ily; “does she know them herself?” 

“Are you trying to drive me mad?” he 
asked, with the forced calm that indicated 
desperation. 

“No, nothing is further from my 
thoughts,” answered Louisa. “I am only 
trying to tell you how I feel.” 

Marlowe said she would have to explain 
further if she expected him to understand. 

“Then listen, Stevie,” she said, “and don’t 
interrupt. The way I gave myself to you 
— was brought about by a trick — oh! it 
wasn’t your fault — Biester lied to me when 
he told me that I must be — protected if I 
expected him to take me in as a member of 
his company. He did it to please you — I 
can see that now, because he was under 
financial obligations to you — though he 
didn’t say you were the only man who — but 
you were there — and you know the rest. At 
first, I confess, I shrank from you, not on 
account of the immorality of it, but because 
you were — necessary to the life I longed to 
enter. That’s all done with — accepted now 

161 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


— it really doesn’t matter — for it’s all 
changed; you have changed, and I — oh! 
can’t you understand? You see, I hated to 
be coerced — and now I know it was all a 
falsehood. Still, nothing matters much if 
only ” 

“What?” asked Marlowe hoarsely, for he 
was under the magic spell of her personality 
again; “are you trying to recall the past?” 

“It’s too late for that. You know that as 
well as I do. But I am only going to ask 
one favor of you: I want — I want you to 
take supper — alone with me in the apart- 
ment — after my second debut — I mean my 
debut in the Dream of Love . Say yes — I 
have a reason.” 

Louisa covered her eyes with her hand for 
a moment, and when she looked at him again 
she was smiling. 

“I am grateful,” she said softly, as he told 
her he would come, and at the gentler note 
in his voice her heart beat happily. She 
could expect nothing more yet. 

Soon afterwards they made their way out 
to the street, and there separated — she to go 

162 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


to rest, he to write some letters, so he said. 

Marlowe met at a dinner, at the house 
of his lawyer, Van Renssalaer Chubb, a Miss 
Marjorie Camp. In the course of the even- 
ing he learned, quite by accident, that she 
was not the real daughter of old Israel 
Camp, but had been adopted, as the couple 
had no children of their own. 

“Adopted!” The word affected him 
strangely, evoking a flood of bitter mem- 
ories and yet more wonderful possibilities. 

“She is not the daughter of Israel Camp!” 
he exclaimed excitedly. Then he fell into 
a brown study. 

If she were merely an adopted child, then 
who had she been — and who were her ante- 
cedents? Could she, by any possibility, be 
the daughter of his dead Linda? Could she 
be the child he should have been seeking all 
this time? Had he found her? And could 
his quest be at an end? 

“I beg your pardon,” he remembered 
saying, “my thoughts have been wool-gath- 
ering. Your remark made me forget for a 
163 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


moment where I was. Your news is very 
curious !” 

The old gentleman who had given him the 
information had stared back at him, vaguely 
surprised, and asked himself why his com- 
panion should have found this piece of com- 
mon knowledge curious. A few moments 
later the men had left the smoking-room, 
and Marlowe found himself seated by Mar- 
jorie’s side. 

“What on earth have you been talking 
about — in there?” she asked banteringly, in- 
dicating the direction of the smoking-room. 

“Women,” he replied, off his guard. “I 
was talking principally about you to old 
Schuyler Van Vorst.” 

“What did he say?” she asked sharply 
and, as he thought, somewhat suspiciously. 

“That you were Queen everywhere and — 
here!” 

Marjorie smiled faintly, but she held her 
fan against her lips, so Stephen could not 
see the line of pain they formed. 

“Come and see me on Thursday,” she said 
impulsively, with a touch of the imperial 

164 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


manner which became her so well; “I have 
something important to tell you — but not 
now — not here.” 

Marlowe noticed her frightened glance. 
But she smiled back at him naturally, sweet- 
ly, and, as he thought, proudly. 

A little later he was listening intently to 
what she was saying. 

“I am telling you about myself, Mr. Mar- 
lowe, because I have no desire to wear bor- 
rowed plumage as if it belonged to me ” 

“But I knew already ” 

“That I was not really born to all this?” 
she asked, surprised. “I did not know it 
myself until six months ago, but there were 
some business questions that had to be at- 
tended to when I came of age, and I had to 

be told ” 

“It was a pity ” 

“No, it was inevitable,” she replied; “only, 
I did suffer at first, for I had lived here ever 
since I was five years old, and it was a shock 
to find out that I was an — alien after all.” 

“What do you know about yourself — your 
real parents?” he asked with suppressed ex- 

165 


THE MERCY OF FATE 

citement, feeling that he might be on the 
right track at last. 

“Not much,” she answered quietly; “only 
that my mother died when I was horn, and 
I was brought up by an old nurse ” 

“What was your mother’s name?” he 
asked intently. 

“Alida ” 

“Not — Linda — you are sure?” 

“No, Alida — Alida Mason,” she an- 
swered, wondering at his lack of composure ; 
“but my father is — dead, too.” 

“Where did you hear all this?” asked 
Marlowe abruptly; “are you sure it is all 
true?” 

“Yes. Why, from my old Nanna — 
Jameson; my — mother, you see, told me I 
might write to her ” 

The reaction was too great, and he bowed 
his head. His quest had led him nowhere. 
It was strange, though, for the face of Mar- 
jorie Camp resembled in a way the dream- 
face of his fire-maiden ; but that, of course, 
was a mere coincidence, yet it had the effect 
of drawing him towards the girl, for whom 
166 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


he already felt a mysterious attraction. 

“What is the matter?” asked Marjorie 
anxiously; “I hope you are not ill?” 

“Oh, no, indeed, only I thought you 
might be some one I had — heard of — though 
I must confess now that I have never seen 
you before.” 

“Yes?” 

“If your mother’s name had been — Linda 
Leigh,” he insisted, “I could have sworn — 
that I — knew — of you,” he said breathlessly. 

“Who did you think I might have been.” 

“The child of — one of my — friends,” he 
answered, and looked down, for he could not 
bring himself to face those clear eyes of 
truth with a lie on his lips. 

Shortly afterwards he left the house, his 
heart more than ever filled with rage against 
Louisa, who had been the innocent means 
of standing between him and the search he 
had come to New York to pursue. His 
feeling for her was almost dead, and if it 
had not been for the promise he had made 
to take supper with her, just two weeks off, 
he would have broken with her now for ever. 


167 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


However, she still had the power to fasci- 
nate him, when he was with her, and he de- 
termined to resist the temptation to visit her 
by writing and asking when he might come, 
hoping that she would refuse to see him. 

When this proved to be the case — she 
pleaded press of business — he was irritated ; 
but perhaps — who knows? — this was the re- 
sult she had intended to produce ! 

The death of Israel Camp, which followed 
a sudden mysterious seizure, brought about 
the departure from America of Marjorie 
and her mother. 

The news of Camp’s unexpected death fell 
like a bomb in Wall Street, where it lay 
ominously smouldering. There were vague 
rumors afloat, and a serious reaction in the 
market seemed imminent. A mild excite- 
ment prevailed in the Stock Exchange, 
where several of the Camp holdings fell off 
a point or two and the list showed a sign of 
a general tendency to weaken. Then para- 
graphs, and even one or two editorials, ap- 
peared in the leading dailies and financial 
newspapers, stating emphatically that the 

168 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


financier’s death had been due to an attack 
of apoplexy, whatever malicious rumors 
had been started to the contrary, and that 
his estate was fully and ably prepared to 
meet every one of his outstanding liabilities. 
This news, persistently reported, was in- 
tended to show that these slanderous reports 
were but the work of the dead man’s ene- 
mies. A small number still persisted in as- 
serting that the affair was mysterious, but 
the opinion of the majority, after a brief 
period of wavering finally prevailed, and 
the market responded, rallying splendidly at 
the last hour. The incident had been widely 
commented upon, but before long it was 
forgotten. Stephen, however, was to learn 
the truth at a later date from a totally un- 
expected and most surprising source. 

Marlowe left cards for the two bereaved 
ladies, and before they sailed he had a short 
note from Mrs. Camp, telling him that they 
were going abroad, and it was more than 
probable they would never return to 
America. 


169 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


Twelve o’clock, midnight, the hour for 
supper, had struck, and Marlowe, punctual 
to the minute, opened the door to Louisa’s 
apartment. He was ushered into the draw- 
ing-room by a strange butler. This seemed 
to annoy him, although he did not 
know why. A moment later Louisa en- 
tered. 

“Stevie!” she cried joyously, and then 
drew back in astonishment, “won’t you tell 
me how I did to-night?” 

“You had Mabelle String beaten to a 
frazzle!” he said, trying to speak casually; 
“but — do we eat? — that’s what I want to 
know.” 

“Dear!” answered Louisa patiently, “I 
think I hear the servants bringing the table 
now — ” 

“I hope that that grinning ape — ,” began 
Stephen surlily, but the door from the hall 
opening at this moment interrupted him, and 
a table was brought in by Marthe and the 
new man-servant. 

“You see I am to be butler and cook com- 
bined,” she said, indicating the tray on 

170 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


which, among other things, was a chafing 
dish. 

“Rather fancifully fixed up for a cook, 
eh?” suggested Marlowe, as he struggled 
against a growing admiration for the dainty, 
alluring woman standing near him, with a 
lingering look of appeal in her lovely eyes. 

“This is my night out— and so I have all 
my regalia on,” she answered, trying to 
match her mood to his, which seemed to be 
most capricious. “But come ! to the table, as 
Marthe says; I have the hunger of a — wolf!” 

Stephen told her several bits of gossip, 
while the lobster was being deftly prepared 
by Louisa: Van Cuyp, he said, had offered 
no defense to the charges of his wife, and 
that Mabelle had announced that they were 
to be married by a Baptist minister in Jersey 
City the very day the divorce was granted. 

“It seems — a pity — to have so much pub- 
licity and comment!” was all that Louisa 
said, for she recognized the necessity of 
coaxing Stephen back to his usual form, if 
she expected to succeed in marking this pas- 
sing hour with a white stone. 

171 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


The meal came to a peaceful close, thanks 
to Louisa’s tact, and after Marlowe had 
finished his second cigarette, he carefully ex- 
tinguished it before he pushed back his chair 
preparatory to leaving. 

“That was great ! and the wine very — su- 
perior!” he said, with the air of a man who 
was completely satisfied; and then he rose, 
looking at his watch. “But it is late and I 
must go!” 

Louisa sat motionless as she felt an airy 
kiss on her brow. She heard his retreating 
steps move in the direction of the door, and 
still she did not change her position. It was 
not until she heard the handle of the door 
creak softly that she spoke — quickly, and in 
a low, vibrating, compelling tone. 

“Stevie — don’t go!” and the woman wept 
as he turned and, after a moment of inde- 
cision, came swiftly to her. She knew then 
that for the time being she had won! 


172 


CHAPTER XII 


LOUISA CAPTURES A LONDON AUDIENCE 

I T was in the spring, some few weeks 
later, that Miss Benner and the Dream 
of Love company departed for Eng- 
land to play a six weeks’ engagement at one 
of Biester’s London playhouses. 

The s.s. Adriatic sailed at noon, and it so 
happened that at the same hour Mabelle 
String, the former star, was united in mar- 
riage to Stanley Van Cuyp, her former 
lawyer, the divorce having been made abso- 
lute only half an hour before the ceremony 
which made these two man and wife took 
place. 

In the florid words of our friends of the 
press, “when the great leviathan steamed 
away from her new million-dollar steel pier, 
bound for foreign though friendly shores,” 
Stephen Marlowe waved a purely perfunct- 
ory farewell to the new star of the theatrical 

173 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


world, who had “gone to gather fresh laurels 
abroad,” and, turning homewards, breathed 
a sigh of relief as at the cessation of a burden 
which had grown hateful. But the woman 
continued to gaze through tear-stained, dim 
eyes at the shore where Marlowe was, as 
long as she could see it; for she knew now 
that he had cast her off indeed, and for the 
first time came the certainty that she loved 
him with that love that comes but once in the 
lives of men and women. 

Alas! the knowledge had come too late, 
for after their last meeting she had seen but 
little of him. He had come to see her off, 
but it was not until then that she saw that 
he no longer loved her, and she realized that 
she could never rekindle his passion. A pas- 
sion dead, a romance buried — and she had 
gone to her cabin to weep out her grief 
alone. 

Marlowe, after he had reached his hotel, 
sat down to write to Eliza Manson, the old 
nurse who had been with poor Linda when 
she died, and who had cared for the child. 


174 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“Dear Eliza,” — he wrote — “can you give 
me any clue as to the whereabouts of my 
daughter? If you will consent to do so, 
it will be for her good, as I am a rich man 
now and wish to make up to the innocent 

living for my sin to the dead 

“Yours faithfully, 

“Stephen Marlowe.” 

Once having written in this wise, it was 
characteristic of the man to wait patiently 
for the reply. Perhaps this was in a meas- 
ure due to the fact that, being relieved of 
the oppression which Louisa’s presence and 
the consequent obligations it entailed had 
brought about, he could now with more free- 
dom subject himself to a rigid self-analysis. 

His short acquaintance with Marjorie 
had also been a factor in the awakening of 
his dormant conscience — at least, in so far as 
it showed him the necessity for looking pres- 
ent facts in the face, facts which he realized 
must be solved. 

He did not spare himself, but began at 
the beginning, by contemplating his initial 

175 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


sin in its direct relation to Linda, and in- 
directly the degree of responsibility it in- 
volved in regard to the child he had never 
seen. 

His conscience told him, that as between 
Linda and himself, his sin had been the 
greater; yes, he had been entirely to blame. 

He had endured untold hardships for a 
number of years in order to equip himself 
for a search which, in the absence of a clue 
must inevitably begin from a perfectly in- 
definite starting point — in this case New 
York, a spot chosen for no other reason than 
that of sentiment. 

After having suffered privations for so 
long, he delayed his search in order to amuse 
himself, as thousands of other and wiser 
men might have done, by indulging in the 
many pleasures which a great metropolis has 
to offer. 

He realized now that he had overdone it, 
but, at this moment, when he knew that his 
passion for Louisa Benner had burned it- 
self out, he looked upon it as an unfortunate 
incident, which had come to an end. 


176 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


It was so much time lost, and he was 
ashamed of the power the woman had ex- 
ercised over him; but how great this influ- 
ence had been he did not realize until he was 
freed from its baneful control. 

He thought that the predominant note of 
his reflections was one of repentance, but 
the fact that he allowed so many elements 
of self-excuse to enter into his calculations 
gave it more the character of remorse. 

Marlowe was a man of forceful person- 
ality, strong desires, and considerable self- 
control. He was naturally inclined to the 
aesthetic in his attitude to life and its various 
relations. It was this last quality that made 
him take so naturally to the refinements of 
life. His ideals were high, and he meant 
to realize them all. 

Stephen was honestly trying to find the 
solution of a difficult problem; and in order 
to do this he was using the best means he 
saw according to his lights. 

The answer to his letter came at last, and 
ran as follows: 


177 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“Stephen Marlowe : I was surprised 
to hear from you, just over twenty years 
after my poor Linda died. I will not tell 
you where her child is, except that the last 
time I heard from her she wrote from for- 
eign parts. God grant you may never find 
her, for you bring evil to all you come in 
contact with! The curses of an old woman 
will follow you to the grave! I hope never 
to have the ill luck again of having you cross 
my path, and in closing I trust that the 
great Reaper shall mow you down soon, so 
that the world may be rid, without delay, of 
a viper which can do nothing but bring and 
do evil. May you suffer for your sin and 
a thousand times seventy times seven, even 
as the innocent have and must always suffer 
through you. 

“(Signed) Eliza Manson.” 

Stephen tore this note into small pieces 
savagely, and threw them into the fire. 
What an old hypocrite the woman was! For 
had she not insisted upon following Linda 
into exile, as she herself called it? So how 

178 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


could she possibly criticize or blame him? 
Besides, it was fate, and not his fault, all 
that had happened. Why could not some 
one have spoken the last time he had gone 
away, and warned him? If they had, he 
would not have gone, and if he had not done 
so his father would not have required his 
care and attention until he had died and re- 
leased him from further responsibility. He 
had returned to his love when it was too late. 

Marlowe pulled himself together with an 
effort, for he had been on the point of dwell- 
ing on the memory of his mother, the sweet 
vision that still had power to draw his heart- 
strings tighter — and busied himself with the 
reading of some business papers that re- 
quired his immediate attention. 

Meantime, Miss Benner was within sight 
of England, and she dreaded to take up her 
life again. 

When she did think of Stephen, she won- 
dered if he ever thought of her. No, that 
could not be, for he must have already for- 
gotten her. 

The Adriatic was to arrive at four o’clock, 
179 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


and Louisa, with the rest, was on deck 
watching for her first glimpse of England; 
but her attitude was listless, and her expres- 
sion denoted neither interest nor pleasure in 
the prospect which caused such wild excite- 
ment in a group of chorus girls standing 
near by. 

One of her hands rested lightly on the 
rail, while the other hung a dead weight at 
her side; she did not appear to see the thin 
line of coast which was becoming more 
clearly visible every minute. The prattle 
of the girls jarred on her, for she could not 
avoid hearing what they said, their voices 
being high-pitched and nasal. 

Louisa turned abruptly and walked to- 
wards her cabin. 

After what seemed an interminable 
period of waiting, the passengers who were 
going to London were duly landed at Ply- 
mouth, and Louisa, with the others, found 
herself on English soil at last. The girl, 
looking rather white as she stood by her 
maid’s side, begged that she might be al- 
180 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


lowed to sit down somewhere, as she felt 
dizzy. 

“That’s the effect of the sea,” said Marthe 
soothingly; “it’ll pass away in a day or two 
— you’ll have to lose your sea legs, that’s 
all.” 

“But when does the train start?” asked 
Louisa, who felt ill; “I would like to get 
into it soon — now, if I could.” 

Marthe, good soul that she was, seeing 
that her mistress needed rest, did not waste 
time in asking tiresome questions, but had 
her soon placed in a carriage where the 
guard promised that they should be alone. 
When they reached London, Miss Benner 
felt much better, as she had slept most of 
the way. 

It was due to Marthe’s tactful ministra- 
tions that she was enabled on the following 
evening to take London by storm, for all 
the newspapers were unanimous in herald- 
ing the arrival and unrivaled success of the 
new American prima donna. 

On the morning of the fifteenth day since 
landing in England, she determined to take 

181 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


her courage in both hands and have a ten- 
tative conversation with Marthe. 

She did not arrive at this decision with- 
out enduring much anguish of spirit, much 
self-communion; but she was alone, suf- 
fering, and — she admitted the fact grudg- 
ingly — wretchedly unhappy. 

Louisa believed that Marthe was to be 
trusted. She certainly had proven herself 
capable in so many unexpected ways, that 
she had succeeded in making Louisa believe 
that she could not get along without her. 
Marthe listened most attentively to all her 
mistress had to say, and comforted her as 
best she could. 

The picture of her former friend Mary 
standing at the foot of the altar just after 
the ceremony had simultaneously flashed 
before her eyes, together with the stern face 
of Stephen, and under the inspiration of the 
first vision she wondered if Stephen would 
come to her if she needed him. The time 
had not arrived when she would plead with 
him to return to her, to comfort and soothe 
her. 


182 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


Miss Benner rose very late and break- 
fasted on a cup of tea and a small piece of 
dry toast; nevertheless, it made her look at 
life in general and her own life in particular 
from a totally different standpoint. 

“Marthe,” she said as her hair was being 
dressed, “I am not — I ” 

“Mademoiselle,” ventured Marthe dis- 
creetly, “seems better.” 

Louisa met Marthe’s eyes in the mirror 
and frowned slightly. 

“I mean — will soon be better,” corrected 
Marthe suavely. 

“But — suppose I am not better — what is 
to be done?” 

“I should advise seeing a doctor, Made- 
moiselle.” 

“No, that would be useless. I am not ill 
— I am only tired.” 

“Ah! yes, Mademoiselle, you are over- 
tired, that’s all. It is easy to see that you 
are overworked. You must get a good rest 
— that is all you need, and then you will see 
things differently.” 

“How good you are, Marthe!” sighed 
183 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


Louisa fervently, “but you are wrong. A 
rest will do me no good. I am too far 
gone for that. Sometimes, I think I must 
be dying ” 

“Pardon, Mademoiselle! I am discreet — 
you must not mind what I say. You are 
in love, but you must not let that love be- 
come the stronger. It is your art that must 
prevail. You must fight and conquer this 
love. You must use every endeavor to forget 
the past, and look only to the future. It is a 
moment of weakness; it will pass. Ah! you 
do not belong to yourself — you are the mis- 
tress of art, and you cannot afford to loiter by 
the way — you shall think alone of the fame 
that some day will be yours. That is best !” 

The day passed somehow, and at the ap- 
pointed time Miss Benner made her way as 
usual to the theatre. 

Before she went on, Marthe insisted that 
she should take a small glass of dry cham- 
pagne, and the girl had not the strength to 
refuse. 

She acted her part like one in a dream, 
and the first act came to an end. With a 


184 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


sigh of relief Louisa retired to her dressing- 
room to prepare for the second act. 

The reaction came, and Louisa pressed 
her fingers to her aching eyeballs to keep the 
tears back. The inevitable had happened. 
She had fallen in love with Stephen. Such 
love she had never known before. It was 
all-absorbing and overwhelming. Her 
strength was being sorely overtaxed by the 
fight she was making. She must endure — 
until to-morrow. The evening would pass, 
and to-morrow she would give up her part. 
It was a cruel decision to come to, for her 
art had meant so much to her. At first it 
had been paramount, until this wonderful 
love had supplanted it. She rose to her 
feet and looked long and feverishly at her 
reflection in the mirror. She was ghastly 
white in spite of her make-up, so she hastily 
put on more rouge. A knock at the door 
startled her, but she crossed the room 
hastily and went out. 

The moment had come! She could no 
longer delay. Perhaps it would not be so 
bad, after all. She made her entrance. Her 


185 


THE MERCY OF FATE 

knees shook under her, but, with a tremen- 
dous effort of will, she conquered her weak- 
ness; for the minute her old form returned 
to her. She smiled with all her usual confi- 
dence and charm. Then the opening bars 
of the famous dance sounded in the orches- 
tra. She took up her position, but suddenly 
her heart began to heat quickly, and, as she 
began to move slowly, a feeling of suffoca- 
tion seized her. The house, as she saw it in 
a second of time, wavered and swam, as a 
dark curtain descended; she tried to scream, 
though no sound came, lurched forward, 
caught herself, and fell back unconscious 
into the arms of the tenor, who was waiting 
his cue to join in the dance. 

The curtain was rung down while she was 
carried out to her dressing-room, and when 
it went up again, Miss Claussen had taken 
her place, they were as like as two peas — 
and the play proceeded. The audience settled 
down, hardly knowing what had happened, 
and applauded, screamed, went mad, in fact, 
for in their opinion Louise Benner was sur- 
passing herself. 


186 


CHAPTER XIII 


SOCIETY RECEIVES 

S TEPHEN MARLOWE found him- 
self in the painful position of a man 
who is unable to make up his mind. 
He could not but realize that he was in very 
much the same position as he had been upon 
his arrival in New York only a few months 
ago. His purpose had been made unstable 
by a pair of alluring, irresistible eyes. He 
tried hard to forget them, but he could not. 

If he put off his departure for a week or 
so, it could change the situation but little, 
if at all; and perhaps he might pick up a 
clue here in New York which could be fol- 
lowed up either in England or on the Con- 
tinent if by chance it should lead there. 

That it must lead to foreign parts was a 
necessity, as Eliza Manson had given him 
so much to go on ; but to work that clue up 
he must have something more definite to add 

187 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


to it, otherwise his work would be all in 
vain. 

It almost seemed as if mere chance would 
bring him to the goal he sought, and why 
should not chance show him the way right 
here in New York as well as abroad? 

Marlowe finally decided to stay on for a 
week or two, believing something important 
might be discovered as to his daughter’s 
whereabouts, and this decision somewhat re- 
lieved the tension of his mind; though if he 
had stopped to consider it, the situation re- 
mained unchanged. 

Clearly, it was more satisfactory to decide 
to lengthen his stay in New York for the 
present, and perhaps something would turn 
up in the meantime which might put him on 
the track of his quest; there was always a 
possibility of that happening if it came un- 
expectedly from a clear sky, though the 
probability of such an event taking place 
seemed unlikely or doubtful in the uncertain 
light of present conditions. 

Stephen now turned his attention to his 
mail, which contained a miscellaneous col- 
188 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


lection of bills, circulars, and so forth, sev- 
eral private notes, which were, in fact, invi- 
tations to dinners, balls, musicales, and a 
multitude of cards for afternoon teas, for 
Van Renssalaer Chubb had induced Mar- 
lowe to get out of his shell. 

Chubb being a gentleman in the strictest 
sense of the word, a man of refinement and 
education, possessed the open sesame to 
most New York houses where it was 
considered necessary to be invited, if one 
wished to be thought in the swim ; and this, 
not by the new criterion of commercial pres- 
tige where wealth was the key that unlocked 
the doors of the favored mansions, but by 
right of inheritance; so that any one to 
whom he stood as a social sponsor was cer- 
tain to have no difficulty in going where he 
wished. 

Stephen, to do him justice, had no am- 
bition from a purely worldly point of view; 
so when he opened his first letter and saw 
that a Mrs. Osborn Wright requested the 
pleasure of his company at dinner on the 
following evening at eight-thirty this abso- 

189 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


lutely made no impression upon him, nor 
did he know that many people would have 
given their eye-teeth to be able to accept 
such a coveted invitation. 

He wrote a note, dictated from a form 
that Chubb had given him, of acceptance — 
because he thought Chubb might be of- 
fended if he did not do so, that was all ; the 
rest of the notes of invitation he accepted 
or regretted at random, more with the idea 
of practicing the forms that Chubb had sug- 
gested than for any other reason. 

He thought the dinner the next evening 
might be amusing, and remembered that 
some one had told him the lady had one of 
the best chefs in town; so he ought to get a 
good dinner if all else failed. Besides, 
Chubb had shown such a kindly interest in 
him, that it would be folly to wound his feel- 
ings in any way. 

It would have made very little difference 
to him if he had known that he was invited 
to fill the place of another man who had 
given out at the last hour; also that it would 
be said behind his back by certain ill-natured 

190 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


people that Chubb had threatened to give 
away one of the pet secrets of the Wright 
family if his choice were refused — because 
Chubb, being the family lawyer of more 
than one influential family, had failed to 
smile on these backbiting, disgruntled peo- 
ple who wanted to enroll themselves among 
the favored few, so that in revenge they re- 
taliated in this cheap way, by suggesting 
that Chubb bought his favors, and so forth; 
but that this was nonsense was proved by 
the fact that these unfortunate people did 
not know their old colonial or modern New 
York. 

Marlowe was too unsophisticated to know 
about all these wheels within wheels, and, if 
he had been cognizant of them, he would 
have laughed; not believing such a thing 
could have been said in all seriousness ; for 
he did not realize that many there be who 
take their social pleasures with all solemnity 
and the pomp of a religious rite, instead of 
getting all the enjoyment they can derive 
from them. 

He dressed with unusual care the follow- 


191 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


ing evening ; he was relieved when he arrived 
at the handsome house in Seventy-fifth 
Street to find that he was not by any means 
the last guest. He greeted his hostess with 
just the proper amount of regret that he 
might be late, and then stepped aside to 
make way for the next arrival, an elabor- 
ately dressed lady whose advent created 
quite a stir, for she had the reputation of 
being the brightest woman in New York. 

Marlowe looked about the dainty Louis 
XY. drawing-room with much interest, 
though he knew nothing of periods or de- 
tails of periods, nevertheless, he was innately 
conscious of the sensuous beauty and color 
of its general scheme. 

He fell into a deep reverie, his mind 
soothed by the happy blending of delicate 
shades, and it was not until he heard his 
hostess’ voice addressing him that he turned 
towards her. She was accompanied by the 
richly dressed woman whose entrance had 
caused more than the ordinary ripple of ex- 
citement a few minutes ago. 

“Mr. Marlowe,” Mrs. Wright was saying, 

192 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“this is a great friend of mine — Mrs. Les- 
lie James. Will you take her in to dinner?” 

Stephen murmured something unintellig- 
ible, and, as dinner was announced at this 
moment by a solemn-faced butler, Stephen 
offered the lady his arm, and they joined 
the others who were making their way to 
the dining-room beyond. 

“I think it better to start fair and square, 
Mr. Marlowe,” remarked Mrs. James as 
they entered the other room, which was fin- 
ished in oak, with a wonderful series of 
panels in red Italian damask, said to have 
been bought directly from a church; “so I’m 
going to tell you all about myself, and, in re- 
turn for my frankness, you must relate to 
me all you care to about yourself.” 

“I’m a newcomer to New York,” an- 
swered Stephen, as they seated themselves 
at the long table which groaned under its 
weight of silver, relieved by a mass of lib- 
erally disposed roses that shone resplendent 
above the napery and plate, “and it would be 
a real help to me, provided it don’t put you 
to any inconveniece.” 

193 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


Mrs. James smiled politely at his quaint 
words, as she unfolded her napkin. 

“I’m not a widow,” she said, with a cer- 
tain air of inconsequence, “for I suppose 
you’ve been trying to place me ; but the fact 
is, my husband and I — not having the same 
tastes and being totally unsuited to each 
other — have agreed to live apart.” 

“Yes, I see,” answered Stephen, feeling 
that it must be his duty to fill in any gaps 
and pauses that might occur. 

“Of course we meet occasionally — in pub- 
lic,” remarked Carla James casually; “and 
it goes without saying that we are always 
courteous to each other — it would be bad 
form otherwise, though sometimes I’ve felt 
that he — overdoes it.” 

This remark seemed to be purely imper- 
sonal and did not appear to call for any 
comment on his part, so he merely waited 
for her to continue. 

“He has his friends, artistic and literary,” 
she volunteered presently, “and I have mine. 
Perhaps you did not know that he writes 
for the magazines — and does it rather well, 

194 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


I believe — so it means a very good arrange- 
ment of our affairs. I live for and in the 
world — it’s much more amusing than being 
clever in the other way; don’t you think so?” 

“I don’t really know,” said Stephen, as 
he struggled with a wonderful concoction of 
caviare which he was not at all certain he 
was managing correctly. “I don’t know 
much about books, and a very little of the 
world.” 

“The former is easily acquired if you have 
any taste for it,” said Mrs. James; “but — 
the world, the world is a very complex game. 
Here, in this town, it consists in having an 
unlimited number of counters called money, 
and the ability or courage to spend them. 
We are bounded on the north by a species 
of new vulgarity, ostentatious but amusing; 
on the south by respectability; on the east 
by poverty, degrading and heartrending ; on 
the west by dazzling splendor, tempered by 
a certain amount of originality — and that, 
my dear man, is a rapid up-to-date sketch 
in black and white of our dear old hateful, 
torn-up, fascinating metropolis. But I 

195 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


wouldn’t have it changed — no, not one jot, 
for I love it all ; I breathe better in its com- 
mercial air, and I can exist only amid its 
dashing, glaring, gaudy garishness. And, 
I hope I’ve got many years still to live in 
it before I die — after a few more visits to 
Paris, bien entendu 

“I’ve never thought of it in that way,” 
said Stephen, vaguely amused. “But to go 
back to what you were saying a few min- 
utes ago — I mean about living apart from 
your husband ” 

“I know what you are going to ask,” and 
she caught him up deftly, laughing lightly 
as she did so; “you want to know why I 
didn’t get a divorce?” 

“Why, yes,” answered Marlowe, sur- 
prised, “I believe I did; but how on earth 
did you guess that?” 

“It was obvious,” she replied, “and the 
logical sequence of what went before. I 
didn’t get a divorce,” she pursued blandly, 
“because I didn’t have a reason; I don’t 
mean cause — that’s a horse of another col- 


196 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“What do you mean?” exclaimed Ste- 
phen, in some consternation, for he was not 
yet sufficiently instructed in the niceties of 
the social shibboleth to read her distinction 
clearly. 

“Reason means wanting to marry some 
one else,” she explained promptly; “cause 
— oh, well, you know what that means. I 
see you do, and I didn’t care to go into it, 
or make it easy for him to form a new al- 
liance ” 

“Divorces are very common nowadays?” 
inquired Stephen naively. 

“Quite,” agreed Carla meditatively; 
“but it’s often due to lack of self-control, 
and more often — because of the reason I’ve 
just given.” 

He saw more clearly that the class he was 
mingling with had a general code of man- 
ners and morals ; also that the whole social 
fabric was woven of tiny threads which were 
not easy to pick up, but which, if one hoped 
to enter the sacred portals, must not be 
treated as of no account. One must learn 
to know the rules in order to play the game, 

19T 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


and then know when to break them; that, 
surely must require a considerable amount 
of finesse, keen judgment, as well as a good 
deal of courage, too. His final conclusion 
was that one should be, above all things, 
genuine. 

“The great difficulty with our system of 
entertaining,” remarked Carla, putting 
down her menu-card which she had been 
studying, “is that we have a comparatively 
small number of men belonging to the 
leisure class. I see you don’t realize how 
many difficulties that fact offers. Let me 
explain. Men are never available until din- 
ner-time. Up to almost that hour they are 
immersed in business. When the business 
day ends, the social side begins, and it is 
their valets who transform them into society 
men — for a few hours only ; then they scut- 
tle to cover like rabbits, and the days, each 
one like its fellow, succeed and follow the 
nights in rotation.” 

“Isn’t that rather crude and — morbid?” 
asked Stephen. 

“No; for men are not creatures of impulse 
198 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


like women — they have no initiative, Mr. 
Marlowe,” said Mrs. James, nodding her 
head gravely to emphasize her cadencies; 
“they are creatures of habit. Alone and 
unsupported, they wouldn’t dare to deviate 
by a hair’s-breadth from the prescribed 
path, I can tell you. Men are a good deal 
like sheep, too, in many ways; they herd 
in offices, they nibble at bits of information, 
they gambol in an atmosphere of commer- 
cialism, and they feed in the middle of the 
day — together, but not with us. That’s 
very important. Later, they prefer bridge 
at the club instead of seeing women. Ah, 
men are becoming sexless and absorbed — I 
don’t know what we are coming to ” 

“But I don’t see ” began Marlow ar- 

gumentatively, when Mrs- James broke in 
excitedly : 

“How one is going to change the sys- 
tem?” she asked; “how are we going to 
bring it to pass that men are to be led into 
the fold and taught to see that women don’t 
want mere machines who have no ideas be- 
yond business or violent sport — who, when 

199 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


they become gentlemen for a few hours each 
night, are too tired to exert themselves, too 
exhausted to sit up at the table without the 
stimulus of — drink? Oh, the pity of it. But 
I tell you, it’s the fault of the women as 
much as the men. Automobiles and the so- 
ciety of modern sporting women have a 
great deal to do with it. The women too are 
gradually allowing themselves to become 
unsexed. The men find very little charm in 
their society, and the system — the tendency 
of the times is all wrong, I tell you.” 

“Your picture is decidedly impression- 
istic,” remarked Stephen; “you are slapping 
on your colours too vigorously to make it 
possible to leave much to the imagination. 
Surely it is crude, ugly, banal ” 

“No, it is true,” answered Mrs. James 
with her usual vigour; “I wish it weren’t. I 
should like to form a society which should 
have as its fundamental object the improve- 
ment of the race of young men and — wom- 
en,” she added, apparently as an after- 
thought. 

“Why don’t you do it?” asked Marlowe, 
200 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


laughing; “it might he amusing — and it 
might be the tender shoot from which would 
spring a new order of things.” 

Carla checked his levity by a gesture and 
a faint smile, for she had not finished her 
observations on her fellow men and women. 

“I am really in earnest,” she urged with 
some force, “and if you only knew what a 
relief it is to be listened to. Why, we have 
been discussing this excellent dinner intelli- 
gently. Usually the man next to me smiles 
at me fatuously and stupidly before he goes 
to sleep — now don’t bow in that silly way 
— and I shriek at the flowers, which nod 
back solemnly as if they understood, while I 
give an utterly false impression to my hos- 
tess that I am enjoying myself.” 

“I can’t believe,” said Stephen, laying 
down his knife and fork when she paused, 
apparently out of breath, “that you are so 
much of either an iconoclast or a social but- 
terfly as you seem to be. I wonder if you 
haven’t a heart — a large heart hidden be- 
neath your worldly veneer ” 

“My poor, dear fellow,” she exclaimed, 

201 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


looking up at him contritely, “I have been 
selfish. You want your innings now — you 
want to put my listening powers to the test 
— you want to talk about yourself. You 
see, I read Marie Corelli’s latest eye-opener 
the other day, and, do you know, it made me 
glad that she and Mr. Roosevelt never mar- 
ried. Just imagine the result of the big 
stick and the Carrie Nation principles the 
Corelli carries out against society. My ef- 
forts would be nowhere. But go on — it’s 
your turn, and I really want to hear what 
you have to say.” 

Marlowe, before he replied, gave a tenta- 
tive glance at the young girl seated on his 
other side. Mrs. James, seeing the direc- 
tion his thoughts were taking him, caught 
his eye on the rebound. 

“Don’t bother about them,” she said, lean- 
ing forward and speaking confidentially; 
“it’s a very bad case. It is generally believed 
that they are already engaged or about to 
be, and they say — she is a suffragette, while 
he is an example of the sort of a man I have 
202 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


been describing. She doesn’t expect any- 
thing from you — please go on.” 

“You must realize that I did not come to 
New York merely to amuse myself. I don’t 
deny that I have sipped nectar” — really, 
Stephen was improving marvellously — “and 
tasted of forbidden fruit, but I had another 
reason, and it was for that I came. My ob- 
ject was to fulfill a sacred trust made to the 
dead. I — promised a man who is — dead, 
that I would try to find his — child, whom he 
had never seen, and make up to her for a — 
sin of long ago. The — man was my friend; 
the woman — I knew also. I have wasted 
time and I don’t know where to look, for I 
have no clue except that the — child, who 
must be a woman grown by this time, has 
gone abroad. I don’t know why I am tell- 
ing you — this, but I felt as if I could trust 
you. Have I done wrong? What ought I 
to do?” Then, feeling her eyes upon him, he 
turned a white face to her. 

“Pull yourself together, Mr. Marlowe,” 
she said in low tones “remember you are in 
the world. You made no mistake in trust- 


208 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


ing me — I have been thinking what to ad- 
vise ; I can’t think what to say yet. Give me 
time. You told your story very well — it is 
a real romance. You wouldn’t think I had 
so much sentiment in me, would you? But, 
dear Mr. Marlowe, you can have confidence 
in me, and I must tell you that I know 
whose was the sin — forgive me, but I can- 
not deceive you. And the child — it is very 
noble of you to wish to expiate your fault — 
it happened so long ago, and yet you re- 
member — you have never lost hope or wa- 
vered — you have never once receded from 
your purpose.” 

‘How good you are,” exclaimed Stephen 
softly; “I do trust you from the bottom of 
my heart, and — I place myself in your 
hands. What must I do? If you could tell 
me that, I should be cheered, uplifted; but 
I fear there is nothing to say, nothing to 
suggest, nothing to do ” 

“Only this,” she returned gently. “You 
have heard that women often know by in- 
tuition what they cannot explain in any 
other way. Well, it is true. I know that 

204 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


some knowledge of your daughter will come 
to you — it will come to you by chance alone, 
but it will surely come. What will happen 
then I cannot say — but you will find your 
daughter, that is certain; don’t ask me how 
I know — but you will find her — you will 
find her,” and her voice sank almost to a 
whisper, passionate, vibrating and pulsating 
with a strange power that brought a new 
hope to fulness in the man’s heart. 

“Thank you,” he said; and as the hostess 
rose at this moment the tension between 
them lessened. She laid her arm on his, and 
in silence they made their way out of the 
room in company with the rest. 

But a bond existed, and must ever exist 
between these two, and Carla, in token of 
that bond, smiled as he bowed and left her. 

Marlowe left at a comparatively early 
hour. He longed to be alone so that he 
could review the situation calmly, dispas- 
sionately, and at leisure. 

He confessed that when she had said that 
chance would bring him and his daughter 
together, he was not unduly affected by her 

205 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


words, as the idea was not a novel one to 
him. 

It was her assertion that his search would 
come to a successful termination, which first 
produced a deeper impression; then when 
she had reiterated this idea more strongly 
he had believed her against his better judg- 
ment, though her statement had been based, 
as she had confessed, on the mysterious ac- 
tion of some obscure feminine mental pro- 
cess. Even now he doubted, and at the 
same time wondered, if there could he any 
possible chance of his quest turning out as 
she had been so positive it would. 

That night, after he had dismissed Jen- 
kins, he lit a long cigar and deliberated as 
he smoked late into the night. 

Clearly, he could expect no mere chance 
to put him on the track of his offspring here 
in New York; three months, nearly four, 
had passed, and, though he had made no 
move, to he sure, nothing had transpired. 
However, if chance were to guide him, it 
would make very little difference whether 
he had acted or done nothing; for as he could 

206 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


not control such a vague element as chance 
one way or the other, it could not possibly 
enter into his calculations as a determining 
factor. 

He might as well go away. Yes, he 
would not remain in New York any longer. 
He would go abroad. He had never yet 
been outside his own country, so he would 
go to London, and perhaps the ghost of 
chance would go too. 

He was rather pleased with the idea of 
going abroad. And it was more than plea- 
surable to feel that he could indulge him- 
self in almost anything that money could 
buy. Yes, he would close the flat in Thirty- 
fifth Street, have his own things packed, 
give up his rooms at the hotel, and sail 
for England, at the end of the week. Jen- 
kins could attend to all these matters in the 
morning. Then he doubted as to whether 
it was wise to carry out his plans. Perhaps, 
after all, it might be better to sleep on the 
matter. That would be wiser. 

He tried to compose himself, but at first 
he was restless and disturbed; gradually, 

207 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


however, wearied of trying to solve a prob- 
lem which gave him a different result each 
time, he relaxed, until little by little his 
eyes closed, and he fell into the deep, dream- 
less sleep of utter exhaustion. 


CHAPTER XIV 


STEPHEN GIVES A BALL 

T HE travail of the night brought forth 
a definite and final decision to sail 
for England as soon as Stephen 
could make the necessary arrangements to 
do so. He therefore gave explicit orders to 
his servant as to the necessary packing of 
clothes, books, and various odds and ends, 
the closing of the apartment in Thirty -fifth 
Street, and also told him to notify the mana- 
ger of the hotel that he would give up his 
rooms as soon as he found out when he could 
secure a berth on one of the steamers of 
the White Star line sailing within the next 
ten days or two weeks. 

“It almost seems as if we were leaving for 
good and all,” began Jenkins, smiling at the 
multiplicity of orders his master was giving 
him; but he checked his exuberance of 
spirits when Marlowe glanced at him — 
209 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


sharply — he knew what that peculiar ex- 
pression meant by this time. 

“As soon as I find out about the date of 
sailing,” pursued Stephen, “just write for 
rooms at the Ritz in London — a sitting- 
room, bedroom, and bath, and, of course, a 
room for yourself.” 

“Very good, sir; anything else, sir?” in- 
quired Jenkins deferentially. 

“No,” answered Marlowe curtly, “you 
may go,” and he immediately turned his at- 
tention to a pile of correspondence on his 
desk. He paid the bills he found there wait- 
ing to he settled, accepted all the invitations 
for the following week, and glanced over 
the rest of the variegated collection, which 
was composed of begging letters, advertise- 
ments and circulars, disposing of the lot in 
short order. 

This ended, Marlowe drummed on the 
desk until, struck by an inspiration, he took 
off the receiver of the telephone at his elbow 
and called up Chubb. He had decided to 
give a party, but he wished to consult his 
210 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


friend about it first, as he wanted Chubb to 
attend to the details. 

The affair was talked of for many a day 
as one of the most brilliant and succesful 
parties given in New York for some 
time. 

Two days later Stephen sailed for Lon- 
don. On the way over, as he paced the decks 
in storm or sunshine, his mind was full of 
but one thought, the search for his daughter. 
He had neglected his duty long enough, and 
now he meant to pursue it until he found 
her, or was forced to acknowledge himself 
beaten. 

He mentally developed plans of discover- 
ing her whereabouts, and found himself at a 
standstill. 

His schemes were, for the most part, in- 
tangible and visionary, as they must needs 
be, for he had nothing definite, nothing 
practical to guide him, no one to consult. 

Chance, that was too vague, too utterly 
hopeless. Well, well, he was nearing land 
— to-morrow night he should arrive in Lon- 
don. The day after to-morrow, if all went 

211 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


well, he would start out and systematically 
begin the search. 

The morning after his arrival in London, 
having a letter of introduction to his banker 
to deliver, he set out in a hansom for Old 
Broad Street. 

He arrived at the bank, told the hansom 
to wait, and in due course of time was ad- 
mitted to the presence of the man he had 
come to see. 

Stephen came out at length, and was 
about to make his way directly to the street, 
when he turned toward the desk on which 
the book of visitors lay open. 

At last he moved away with a sigh; it 
was utterly hopeless and futile to expect 
help to come in this way, for he did not even 
know his child’s name, unless it might be 
Leigh, and there was no such name as that 
to be found, or indeed anything like it. 

Marlowe visited other banks, a few house 
agencies, hut no information was to he 
gleaned; so he paid off his cabby, and 
stopped at one of the larger restaurants for 
luncheon. 


212 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


The room was filled with people, mostly 
women. 

From where he was sitting he could not 
see the whole room, as the restaurant was 
crowded, though he had had apparently no 
difficulty in finding a table, being alone; he 
had been put by himself, so to speak — shut 
out from the crowd by a mass of palms — for 
it was the last of the smaller tables left, 
though he had not realized this when he had 
been shown to it. 

A woman entered, turned almost imme- 
diately when she saw that no place was left, 
and walked away. Marlowe did not see her 
face, for he did not look up until she had 
begun to move away; nor did he notice that 
another lady stood in the background. It 
was only after they had gone that he real- 
ized that there was something vaguely fa- 
miliar about the way the women moved, and 
he had caught a fleeting glance of a younger 
woman who followed in the wake of the 
other. 

They both retired, disappearing into the 
obscurity of the maze of people, and were 

213 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


soon lost to view as they seated themselves 
at the extreme end of the vast room, hid- 
den by a screen that led into the servants’ 
passage-way to the kitchen. 

He laughed quietly as he began his lunch, 
for the younger of the two women — now he 
knew it — had reminded him in a vague way 
of Majorie; but it could not he they, as he 
had heard before he left home that someone 
had seen them in Paris and had written 
home to that effect. How absurd to think 
that it could have been they, — though now 
he remembered that both ladies had been 
dressed in mourning, still everyone dressed 
in mourning could not he — It was ridicu- 
lous; and besides he had positive knowledge 
that they were not in London. It was curi- 
ous that he should have thought of Majorie, 
for there was no reason why he should; but 
he soon forgot all about the incident, for his 
luncheon was excellent and he was very 
hungry. 

In the afternoon he took a drive in the 
Park, which amused him, though it looked 
rather dreary in its winter dress; dropped in 
214 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


for tea somewhere, and then returned to the 
Ritz about six o’clock. He rang for Jen- 
kins, who got him into his dressing-gown. 
After ringing for a whiskey-and-soda, 
Stephen thought he might go to the play to- 
night. That was a good idea; after six days 
on the sea, he needed a change. 

When the drink was brought to him, he 
sent his servant to find out what plays were 
being given, and to try to get him a seat; 
he wanted to be entertained, so he in- 
structed his man not to get a ticket for any 
but the best and most amusing show. 

After he had finished his drink, he settled 
himself hack in a long, easy chair, and 
closed his eyes, as he thought, for an instant. 
When he opened them and looked up with a 
start, Jenkins tood there, smiling apologeti- 
cally. 

“I knocked twice, sir,” he said, “and then 
I came in.” 

“I must have forgotten myself for a mo- 
ment; that isn’t like me — to do a silly thing 
like that,” remarked Marlowe sleepily and 
215 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


rubbing his eyes. “I must,” he yawned, 
“be beginning to break up.” 

“I never knew you to do it before, sir — ” 
said Jenkins. 

“And I hope I’ll not do it again in a 
hurry,” said Marlowe, blinking. “I feel 
all done up. What did you get?” 

“Sir — ” began Jenkins, looking down at 
the ticket he held, and fingering it awk- 
wardly in his embarrassment, “I’ve done 
the best I could — I couldn’t do better — and 
they assured me it was by far the most 
amusing piece, so — I got a stall, sir; at the 

S Avenue Theatre. They are giving — 

the — Dream, of Love " 

Marlowe glanced sharply at his servant, 
and then looked away. 

“No, that’s amusing, I guess,” he said 
easily, “and I told you to get the best. Jen- 
kins — is the cast — the same?” 

“Yes, I asked if it was the American 
company that was playing, and they say 
Miss Benner is ” 

“Out of sight, I suppose,” interrupted 
Stephen. “Yes, she’s clever, fast enough.” 

216 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“She’s more than that, sir,” responded 
Jenkins, “they say she’s the whole 
show ” 

“Just draw me a bath, will you?” went on 
Stephen, as if he were bored, “I’ll dress.” 

“Very good, sir. Hot or cold, sir?” 

“Tepid,” he said curtly. 

Jenkins disappeared into the bathroom. 
He didn’t like to hear that harsh tone in his 
master’s voice, and stood rather in awe of it. 

Marlowe, meantime was indulging in 
day-dreams. He wondered if Jenkins had 
noticed anything out of the ordinary in his 
manner when Louisa’s name was men- 
tioned. Stephen himself had experienced 
an indescribable sensation at the time, some- 
thing resembling the feeling known as 
goose-flesh, or the mental shrinking which 
the mention of a ghost produces in some 
people of sensitive temperaments, but had 
quickly recovered himself- It was natural 
to pause abruptly at the mention, at the 
sudden introduction, of the name of one to 
whom he had been bound by the strongest 
of all passions: it was also natural to be able 

217 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


to throw off the eerie sensation that had 
momentarily taken possession of him, when 
he realized that the roses of that brief period 
had turned to ashes. 

He had no fear — he saw that at once — of 
facing again the woman he loved, for he 
knew, that he could look into her eyes with- 
out the faintest degree of emotion. 

If there was the slightest doubt, even in 
the back of his mind, the test of being con- 
fronted with his former enchantress would 
be an amusing one; that it was nothing 
more, the absence of any emotion on his part 
proved. 

Jenkins came in and told him his bath 
was ready. He arose and went into the 
bathroom. 

He was still thinking of Louisa. He 
owed the woman nothing; but would it not 
be better to pay down a fixed sum and bring 
the old affair to an end? That must be de- 
cided, thought over. That he did not make 
up his mind at once might seem as if there 
were some smouldering embers of passion 
still left — but he felt sure that this was not 


218 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


so. And he dismissed the subject from his 
mind. 

It had been curious how he had connected 
Majorie and her legal mother, Mrs. Camp, 
with the two ladies he had caught a fleeting 
glimpse of in the restaurant, especially as he 
knew almost to a certainty they were not in 
London. He wished he did Know where 
they were. It would be pleasant to see 
them again. His short acquaintance with 
them had given him an entirely different 
view of life, and the fact that Majorie had 
hinted very plainly that she wished to be 
married, for no other reason than that she 
desired a name which she could call her own, 
had not surprised him, nor had he thought 
it unmaidenly; it seemed then, as now, a 
perfectly natural and human longing. 

It d ; d not find any answering chord in 
himself, for the simple reason that he had 
not been in love with her; nor would she 
have spoken out her thoughts so freely if 
she had had the remotest conception of the 
probability of such a thing. 

At times he thought of her, curiously 

219 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


enough, in the character of his fire-maiden. 
This was not altogether strange, for the 
two faces had many points of resemblance; 
yet if each were analysed in detail and side 
by side, there would be seen many essential 
differences, though there certainly was a 
subtle similarity between them. 

He sighed, and his line of thought shifted. 
He dwelt on the subject of his daughter, 
and again he wondered how he should set 
about finding her. 

If there were only someone he could con- 
sult, someone who would give him some 
practical advice, or offer him some sugges- 
tion he could follow out in a tangible way, 
he would be only too thankful. But there 
seemed to he no one he dared to ask. 

He had begun to think that his path of 
discovery had ended in a blind alley. There 
was no way out except by retracing his 
steps, and that would be to acknowledge 
himself beaten; he was not prepared to ac- 
cept defeat yet, hopeless as the situation 
appeared. 

He came out of the bathroom and sat 


220 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


down to have his valet put on his socks. 

“I think I will have those — ” he said, and 
hesitated. 

“Shoes, sir?” inquired the man, looking 
up, but not at his master. 

“Yes,” answered Stephen, with a twinkle 
in his eye, “but we call them low shoes at 
home.” 

“Quite so, sir — thank you, sir.” 

Marlowe stared at the top of the man’s 
head as he knelt at his feet, finishing his 
work, and suddenly he frowned, for he de- 
cided to do something quite out of the ordi- 
nary. Why not consult his servant? He 
had always wished to do so. Even now, he 
hardly knew how to begin, indeed, he dared 
not even make a start. He had learned 
enough about the ways of English servants 
to realize that they are and must be consid- 
ered in the light of mere machines; and 
deviation from the ordinary routine might 
be misunderstood, and — well, it might be a 
mistake. One error of that kind, and the 
authority of the master would he at an end; 
hut — the present case seemed to warrant a 
221 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


departure from the usual methods of pro- 
cedure, and it might be the means of put- 
ting him on the right track for the first 
time. 

The great difficulty was to find a proper 
and natural opening, and, after his shoes 
had been laced, he determined to rest for a 
few minutes, until his courage had risen 
sufficiently to make it possible for him to 
speak. 

He proceeded with his toilet leisurely, 
asking questions and making observations 
at random — not with the object of seeking 
information, hut rather with the idea of 
finding some means of leading up to the 
subject nearest his heart. 

“What must I do if I get into a row with 
a cabby?” he asked, not knowing that later 
on the information his servant was about 
to give him would stand him in good stead. 

“If you can’t settle with the man amica- 
bly,” answered Jenkins, smoothing his mas- 
ter’s hair at the hack, “and he shows signs 
of being disagreeable in order to get the 
better of you, it is always better to request 

222 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


him to drive to the nearest police station.” 

“What good would that do? why, he 
would be a fool to go.” 

“I don’t see for why. He is forced to 
go,” said Jenkins. “The dispute would be 
settled there, and the rights of the matter 
decided on.” 

“But — is it on the square — final?” again 
asked Stephen, trying with infinite pains to 
fasten his collar. 

“Oh, — yes, sir,” replied Jenkins, deftly 
buttoning the recalcitrant collar with a small 
fastener, “it’s fair and it’s final. I remem- 
ber, sir, a gentleman, an American gentle- 
man, was going to the City from the West 
End — it’s a two-shilling fare, as the gentle- 
man knew; but, sir, out of kindness he gave 
the driver a half-crown. It being too much, 
the cabby made a fuss and demanded more. 
At the police station the magistrate found 
in favour of the fare, sir, but told him he 
had made a mistake in overpaying the 
cabby ” 

“And the cabby?” asked Stephen. 

“Oh, he was fined ten bob and costs,” 


223 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


answered Jenkins. “I beg your pardon, 
sir,” he added, “may I pull your braces up 
a bit? — your trousers are a trifle long.” 

“Braces. Oh, you mean — suspenders, I 
guess; at least, that’s what we call them on 
our side of the pond. But what ought I to 
do if I get into a tight place — I ain’t talk- 
ing about sus — I mean braces — police busi- 
ness and that sort of game?” 

“If you are hard put?” remarked the 
valet, standing off to see that the dress-coat 
hung to his satisfaction, and pulling it there, 
or patting it gently, “the best thing is to 
ask a bobby ” 

“A what?” 

“Begging your pardon, sir, I should say 
a — policeman,” and Jenkins coughed apolo- 
getically. 

“Well, I’m d — d,” was the trite observa- 
tion that Marlowe made. And then; “You 
know a good deal about London, I suppose, 
besides English customs; I wonder if you 
could help me?” 

“I should be glad to do what I could, 
sir — certainly — thank you, sir.” 

224 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“I believe you, my lad,” exclaimed Ste- 
phen warmly. Now, listen. I came to 
London to look up the daughter of a friend. 
The mother is dead, and I’m afraid the 
union wasn’t strictly carried out according 
to Hoyle; you see? The name of the 
woman was Linda Leigh, and the father — 
well, he don’t want his name known — he’s 
playing the dark-house game, has never 
seen the girl, and — she should he about 
twenty-two years old by this time. . . Now, 
how can I ever hope to find her with only 
that to go on? I wish — people — would 
hunt up their own kids, and — what?” 

Stephen had turned away as he was con- 
cluding his sentences, but, hearing a noise, 
wheeled about suddenly 

“I’m sure I beg your pardon, sir,” ex- 
claimed Jenkins contritely; “it was my 
awkwardness. I dropped your brush. 
There’s only one way to find that gell— 
you’ll have to advertise.” 

“Advertise?” 

“Yes, sir, for if she’s in these parts she’ll 
see it, and send an answer.” 

225 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“I’m afraid that would be like hunting 

for a needle in a haystack ” 

“No, sir,” insisted Jenkins. “You let me 
put a proper advertisement, say, in the 
Times, the Paris edition of the New York 
Herald — that’s widely read; or — I have it 
— in Lloyd’s weekly paper; they’ve made 
some wonderful discoveries in their 
time.” 

“I should say for ten days or two weeks,” 
suggested Marlowe, sitting down at a desk, 
drawing a sheet of paper toward him, and 
dipping a pen meditatively in the ink-well. 

“Of course, you may trust me to be dis- 
creet, sir, about this matter ” 

“I should hope so. Remember, not a 
word to anyone, and I won’t have my name 
appear. I know I can’t stop your gabbing 

about it if you have a mind to ” 

“Sir, I said you might have confidence in 
me,” said Jenkins, with quiet dignity, “and 
sir, I meant it.” 

“All right, my lad, that’s all right; but 
hold your horses for a minute, and I’ll tell 
you what I think I will do — just wait until 
226 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


I get it down. If this fails I don’t suppose 
there’s anything to be done — eh?” 

“Absolutely nothing as I know of.” 

Marlowe’s pen scratched busily for the 
next few minutes; then he threw it down, 
blotted the half sheet on which he had been 
writing, and handed the paper to his servant. 

“There,” he said, “read that aloud — I 
want to hear how it sounds ; and if it’s O. K., 
just attend to this matter as soon as pos- 
sible.” 

“ ‘If this should meet the eye of the 
daughter of Linda Leigh,’ prefaced Jenkins 
with a faint cough, “ ‘she will hear some- 
thing to her advantage by writing imme- 
diately to Hartleigh Green, K.C., 17 Car- 
lisle Street, London, England. Said daugh- 
ter was born about twenty-two years ago in 
a small cabin eight miles from the village of 

B , in the State of Connecticut, 

U. S. A.’ ” 

“If you think that will do,” said Mar- 
lowe, rising, “just leave my things ready for 
me. That is all. You may go.” 

“Thank you, sir,” murmured Jenkins, as 
227 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


he pocketed the paper. “Same time in the 
morning, sir?” 

“Yes,” answered Stephen absent-minded- 
ly; and then, correcting himself, “or, no, I’ll 
ring when I want you.” 

“Good night, sir.” 

“Good night,” answered Stephen, turn- 
ing away abruptly as the door closed softly, 
to pace the room excitedly several times be- 
fore he too went out on his way to dinner 
and to the play. 

He asked himself many times where and 
under what conditions he should find his 
child, if he was ever really destined to meet 
her. And yet he never for a moment lost 
courage. When Stephen Marlowe once 
made up his mind to do a certain thing, he 
bent all his energies to the accomplishment 
of it. 

He breathed more easily as he found him- 
self among his fellow-beings, and he was 
glad he had decided to go to the theatre. 
He sadly needed some amusement and rec- 
reation. 


228 


CHAPTER XV 


MARLOWE MAKES A NEW FRIEND 

A WEEK had passed since Stephen 
went to the play, and he was still in 
a quandary. During the perfor- 
mance of The Dream of Love , he felt as if 
he were a criminal suspected of a horrible 
crime, who is about to be subjected to the 
supreme test. 

When the curtain fell on the last act, 
Marlowe breathed a sigh of relief as he 
rose from his seat. He had not once felt a 
return of the old thrill — in fact, it was as if 
he never before had seen this once familiar 
face; yet he left the playhouse strangely 
dissatisfied, and, curiously enough, he could 
not understand the cause of this unaccus- 
tomed sensation. 

It was almost as if there were some mys- 
tery, something unexplained, unfinished — 
though those eyes, those wells of truth, as 
he had been wont to call them in the old 


229 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


days, had met his own without flinching or a 
glance of self-consciousness. There seemed, 
however, a lack of finality in the situation 
that puzzled him, though the failure of the 
test should have convinced him that his pas- 
sion for her was dead at last, and that the 
girl, from her manner and lack of recogni- 
tion, tacitly accepted it as such- It was very 
curious! He could not understand it. 

Two weeks passed, and still no answer 
from the advertisement. He consulted 
Jenkins, who tried to console him by say- 
ing that once, after seven years, a reply to 
an advertisement had turned up; but he 
was depressed to the last point when an 
unexpected surprise came, in the arrival of 
Mrs. Wright and Mrs. James. 

Stephen welcomed this change, for lately 
he was becoming morbid. And he felt that 
only traveling would lift him out of himself. 
He seemed utterly unable to dispel the 
gloom, and continually reviewing the entire 
situation, he inevitably took an abnormal 
and distorted view of the existing condition 
of his affairs. 


230 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


Mrs. Wright would introduce a new ele- 
ment into his life, while Mrs. James under- 
stood him so well, it was not surprising that 
he looked forward to again meeting them 
with a feeling of pleasure and relief. He 
was anxious to be taken out of himself, and 
he knew they would be able to do it. 

He wondered whether he should send up 
his card and let them know he was stopping 
in the same hotel; or should he wait until 
they discovered him? He did not know 
which was customary, but decided to wait — 
at least until they were settled, for they had 
only arrived the night before. 

He did not see them during the day, but, 
coming in late to dinner, he caught sight of 
them sitting at a table just finishing their 
meal. After mutual greetings, Mrs. 
Wright asked him to supper with them after 
the play, they dined early so that, as Mrs. 
Wright said, they could be in the theatre 
when the curtain went up; she was old-fash- 
ioned enough to hate to miss that. 

Stephen was glad enough to accept, and 
the ladies, after exchanging a few pleasan- 
231 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


tries with him, left for their evening’s amuse- 
ment. 

What a delightful meeting it had been, 
brief as it was! How eager he was to re- 
new those moments of intimacy with Mrs. 
James! for during the hasty conversation 
he had not been able to address a word to 
her, as Mrs. Wright had monopolized every- 
thing and held the centre of the stage; but 
he had caught, nevertheless, an echo of the 
old friendly spirit in her companion’s eye 
and expression, which made him realize 
more than ever what a steadfast friend she 
might be, and how sympathetic and genuine 
she really was. 

Platonic friendship! He could very eas- 
ily imagine such a delightful relationship 
becoming established between them, to their 
mutual advantage. It would certainly be 
a help to him to feel that the unselfish com- 
panionship of a woman like Carla James 
might possibly be his, a woman who was 
sincere, a good friend, and a woman of the 
world. Hermy Wright could never be any- 
thing more than a stimulant, healthy, invig- 
232 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


orating, but never lasting, never the same, 
never as satisfying as the other. 

He was shown to his table, and decided to 
make his dinner last as long as possible, so 
as to pass the time, and put in the rest of 
the evening at one of the music-halls. 

At a few minutes before ten o’clock, hav- 
ing dawdled away as much time as he had 
at his disposal, he drained the last 
drop of his coffee, paid his bill, and went 
out. 

He dropped in at the “Empire” just as 
Colette La Touche, the barefoot dancer, 
was executing the first of her graceful poses 
to the accompaniment of some classic meas- 
ure, the intermission just having ended; lis- 
tened to the clever imitations of Cecile Riv- 
ers, who took off most of the famous ac- 
tresses of the day, and then, looking at his 
watch, saw that he would be late for supper 
if he did not hurry off now. 

He waited at the back of the house to 
watch some wonderful balancing feat before 
he pushed his way out to the street and 
hailed a hansom. His spirits rose when he 
233 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


thought that soon he would be again in the 
society of his friends. 

On his arrival at the Ritz, however, he 
found he was ahead of time, so after he had 
sent his hat and coat to his room, he sat down 
to wait for them. He chose a seat in the 
main hall on one of the divans, and watched 
the arrivals for supper. 

A funny little man, wearing his glasses 
balanced almost on the end of his nose, bus- 
tled in, nearly bowling over one of the at- 
tendants, who stood in his way, smiled, 
apologized, then for the first time, aware of 
his mistake, glared at the man as he gave up 
his hat and cape, snatched his check from 
him and turned away, once more wearing a 
conventional set smile which he held in read- 
iness to greet the lady he was to meet and 
sup with. 

Presently she arrived, fresh, artificially 
rosy, dressed in a wonderful creation, from 
rue Taitbout, and having, as Stephen 
thought, Paris written all over it; she was 
decollete too, and wore a hat, a wonderful 
thing of gold lace and ostrich feathers. She 
234 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


was stared at, and commented upon by more 
than one person in the lounge. She seemed 
entirely unconscious of the effect she was 
making, and, as her escort came mincing 
forward, Marlowe caught the greeting of 
the old roue, “Bon soir, petite , fes en re- 
tard” and her reply “Pardon, Altesse — ” 
and the rest of the sentence was lost as they 
moved off in the direction of the supper- 
room. 

Couples entered, men, groups of women, 
and, after an interminable interval, Mar- 
lowe caught sight of Carla James. She saw 
him almost at the same moment, and waved 
gayly at him with her fan. Behind came 
Mrs. Wright and a young man, dark, per- 
fectly dressed, with soft brown eyes, some- 
thing like those of a Newfoundland puppy, 
and a shock of hair plastered across his white 
forehead. He was, as Stephen learned 
afterward, Lord Hughes-Tempest. At 
present he considered him merely in the light 
of a fourth, whose coming made the chance 
of a tete-a-tete with Carla more possible. 

He had no reason afterward to change his 

235 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


opinion of the young man, who, he perceived 
at once was merely a fashion-plate who 
possessed a few stock phrases, and very lit- 
tle else. But Hermy Wright evidently 
found him absorbing. Later on, the general 
conversation subsided and dwindled into 
confidences between the two couples, being 
finally carried on, as far as Carla and 
Stephen were concerned, in low tones. 

Marlowe, having dined so heartily, was 
not hungry, but the hot, dry air of the mu- 
sic-hall had made him thirsty, and he swal- 
lowed two glasses of champagne before he 
could manage to speak easily and comfort- 
ably. 

“We went to see The Dream of Love; 
really, Louise Benner is — wonderful! ex- 
claimed Mrs. Wright, as she helped herself 
to caviar. 

“But you’d seen the show in New York 
before you came over?” asked Stephen, 
surprised. 

“No, curiously enough I hadn’t,” an- 
swered Mrs. Wright, looking across at him 
with one of her direct, frank glances which 
236 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


made him lower his eyes; “it’s awfully good, 
and Miss Benner ” 

“Oh! she’s ripping!” said Hubert Hughes- 
Tempest, his words falling over one another 
with the force of an explosion, and then 
laughed immoderately. 

“Yes, she’s clever,” remarked Stephen, 
quietly; “but I saw her — before I left 
America.” 

“Fancy!” burst forth Hubert, who re- 
moved his monocle to scrutinize Marlowe 
more attentively, though he himself was not 
conscious of having said anything extraor- 
dinary. 

“Can you see better or worse with that 
piece of glass in your eye?” asked Stephen 
mischievously; “better I think, or you 
wouldn’t — wear it, eh?” 

“Rath — er!” answered Hughes-Tempest, 
appearing to glare at Stephen from his eye- 
glass, which he had replaced. “I’m far- 
sighted, don’t you see? and quite blind with- 
out it.” 

“I’ve often wondered how on earth you 
keep it in,” drawled Carla lazily, “though, 

237 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


of course, I never liked to speak of it — I 
didn’t know whether you’d like it or not. 
Isn’t it horribly hard to learn? I’d much 
prefer a lorgnette.” 

“Easiest thing in the world — ’pon honour. 
What?” answered Lord Hughes-Tempest 
meditatively, and then after a pause, “fancy 
me with a lorgnette! I’d he jolly well 
chaffed at the Club if I — I say, though, 
you’re jollyin’ me? No? — really, now, 
aren’t you?” 

‘No, indeed,” said Stephen earnestly, but 
with a twinkle in his eye which was lost on 
the Englishman, “we really want to know.” 

“I see,” replied Hubert, very seriously. 
“Well, I will say it was most awfully tryin’ 
at first; but I kept on, even in the face of 
the most exasperatin’ difficulties, and now I 
never think of it at all — what?” 

The ladies laughed. 

“I’m glad to have seen Miss Benner,” 
said Hermy, reverting enthusiastically to 
her first thought. “I have heard so much 
about her ” 

“What have you heard?” asked Stephen, 
238 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


with a subtle change of tone, which, how- 
ever, no one noticed except Carla, and she 
wisely gave no sign. 

“Only that she was awfully good,” con- 
tinued she; “but I had no idea ” 

“Oh! she’s rippin’ — ” broke in Hubert, 
with all the freshness of a new thought, and 
just as if he was not at all conscious that he 
had said the same thing before. 

“Yes,” said Stephen absent-mindedly, 
“she is a very clever actress-” He too, had 
evidently forgotten that he had voiced the 
same sentiment before. He laughed, and 
there was a nervous touch to it which Carla 
alone perceived; but again she was silent, 
keeping her counsel. 

The conversation still remained general, 
Mrs. Wright dominating it, with exclama- 
tions or observations which were in the na- 
ture of asides, for no one listened to 
them except Hughes-Tempest, Mrs. James 
laughed, did her share when Hermy paused 
for breath, but Stephen, who was less of the 
world and consequently less used to exercis- 
ing self-control, grew more and more silent. 

239 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


He drank champagne freely, to brace 
himself up, and strangely enough, it did not 
seem to go to his head, but instead produced 
a spirit of exaltation that was destined to 
find an outlet sooner or later. 

“Let us have coffee upstairs in the sitting- 
room,” Hermy suggested; “it would be so 
much more cosy — that’s American for com- 
fy, Hubert; what do you say?” 

“Right-oh!” agreed Hubert, to whom the 
question seemed to have been addressed; “if 
you’ve paid your shot, let’s be off!” 

“You naughty, ill-bred hoy!” exclaimed 
Hermy, “you ought to offer to pay ” 

“Oh! come, I say — ” said Hubert laugh- 
ing, “I thought you were puttin’ up to- 
night ” 

“You English are incorrigible!” cried 
Mrs. Wright. 

“Don’t you,” she asked, as he looked over 
the bill that was presented to her before 
signing it, “ever consider women in any 
other light than to pander to your pleas- 
ure?” 

“I say, Mrs. Wright,” he exclaimed re- 
240 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


proachfully, as they rose to go, “you are 
rough on a chap. Whatever do you mean?” 

“I was only joking, dear boy,” she quib- 
bled weakly; “don’t worry your poor head 
about it.” 

Ten minutes later the four were in Mrs. 
Wright’s sitting-room, which she shared 
with Carla James. Coffee and liqueurs were 
brought in by a waiter, who looked, as Mrs. 
James afterward remarked, “white and 
trembling with fatigue — to the bone, my 
dear.” 

“Poor man!” she said, as she poured her- 
self out a cup of coffee; “I believe they are 
on their feet from all hours in the morning 
until all hours in the night ” 

“Fudge!” exclaimed Hughes-Tempest 
with unconcealed contempt, “they get time 
off every day, and I hear they do them aw- 
fully well here: what?” 

“Have a cigarette, Huby?” inquired 
Mrs. Wright, puffing at one herself and 
tossing the box across to him, “but don’t 
talk rot!” 

Stephen drank his coffee slowly and 
241 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


meditatively, topping off with a pony of 
brandy; then he walked over and sat down 
by Carla’s side. 

The others were sitting on another sofa 
in the opposite corner of the room, and were 
already engaged in a conversation that 
promised to be endless; so the low-toned 
words and confidences carried on between 
Stephen and Carla were not liable to be 
interrupted. 

“I really haven’t had a chance to talk to 
you before,” said Carla softly; “have you 
any news to tell me? You don’t know how 
interested I was by what you have already 
told me — have you nothing to report?” 

“Nothing definite,” answered Stephen, as 
he rose to put his cup down beside hers on a 
table near by; “but I can tell you what I 
have done, which is not much.” 

“Everything counts,” suggested Mrs. 
James softly, “so go ahead and confess.” 

Stephen told her all that he had done, be- 
ginning with the examination of the visi- 
tors’ books at the various banks, and how 
futile that had proved. “And then by my 

242 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


servant’s advice,” he went on, “I adver- 
tised ” 

“That’s an excellent idea — I never would 
have thought of that!” said Carla, shifting 
her position so as to face Stephen. In what 
paper did you advertise?” 

“The Times ” replied he wearily, “and I 
believe in the Paris edition of the New York 
Herald — oh! and in a weekly paper I’d 
never heard of before — Lloyd’s” 

“I’ve heard of it, and I believe it’s sup- 
posed to be very reliable,” said Carla, as she 
lit a cigarette and settled hack comfortably 
on her cushions. “And what then?” 

“Well, I’ve heard nothing further of the 
matter,” answered Stephen quietly, “and I 
don’t believe I ever will.” 

“You dare to say that after all I’ve done 
for you?” said Mrs- James mock-seriously. 
“I don’t believe you have ever had a particle 
of faith in me from the beginning.” 

“It isn’t fair to say that, my dear Mrs. 
James, when you know I appreciate all you 
have done for me ” 

“You evidently don’t believe in my occult 

243 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


powers,” suggested Carla mischievously, “or 
else you wouldn’t be talking in that hopeless, 
depressed way.” 

The wine he had been drinking had given 
him a new courage, and the coffee and 
brandy had steadied his nerves, or else he 
would never have had the moral strength to 
speak out his secret thoughts to the woman 
sitting beside him. 

“I’ve something to say to you; I think — I 
hope — you will understand,” he began, 
“but you said something about confess- 
ing a few minutes ago, and — I think 
you can help me to settle matters with my 
conscience; at least — oh! I don’t know what 
I mean — I’ve made an awful mess of my 
life! You don’t know — you can’t imagine 
what it means to me to be received on terms 
of equality by you and your — friend; it 
helps me to feel that I may be able to get 
my self-respect back some day, after 
all ” 

“I see it’s quite time for me to take a 
hand,” broke in Carla; you are desperate 
and — morbid. Don’t you know that when 

244 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


things get very bad it’s a sure sign that they 
are going to improve? Now I want you to 
tell me what is troubling you, freely and 
fully, and if I can help you in any way I 
shall be only too glad. Remember, too, that 
I am a woman of the world, and — I shall 
understand.” 

“I almost feel that you have an idea of 

what I am going to say ” 

“I— believe I— have.” 

“But how?” he asked in consternation. 

“It wasn’t so difficult as you think,” she 
answered gently. You remember you made 
me some confidences — some of them were 
only half confidences — and you merely 
glossed over those, which made me wonder 
why you did so. You gave them appar- 
ently as an afterthought; but to me they had 
the same force as a postscript in a woman’s 
letter, so — I had reason to believe they 

might be important ” 

“To what are you referring — especially?” 
He was hoping against hope that she might 
be on the right track, for if she was, it would 
make his task easier. 


245 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“To the idea which your casual mention 
of having tasted forbidden fruit set in mo- 
tion,” she said, passing her black feather fan 
through her tapering fingers. “You laid the 
least stress on that fact; so, being a woman, 
and having a woman’s way of looking at 
things, I put two and two together in my 
foolish, silly way, and felt you were not tell- 
ing me the whole truth. Am I wrong?” 

“No,” he answered shortly, “you are not; 
hut — it is magical!” 

“I knew there must he a woman in the 
case — I knew that almost at once,” admitted 
Carla, “and I couldn’t help wondering who 
she might be; it was only human for me to 
do that. I don’t suppose I ever should have 
heard if you — hadn’t told me yourself to- 
night — ” 

“I — how? Why you must be a wizard!” 
I said nothing — absolutely nothing.” 

“You didn’t tell me in so many words,” 
she said, raising her eyebrows as if in ex- 
cuse for her frankness, “but when we were 
speaking of a certain actress ” 

“You mean Miss Benner?” and his colour 


246 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


changed ever so slightly. “Yes, it is true. 
She was — under my protection for three or 
four months. It is all — over now, though; 
but hear me out! What I am going to say 
is — God’s truth. She was tricked, and by 
her manager. He was my friend, and, be- 
lieving he was serving me, he had the face to 
tell the girl she would have to have a 
‘friend’ before she could hope to get a posi- 
tion in his show. Wasn’t it a low trick to 
play on the girl, because what could she do 
but believe him? She was entirely inex- 
perienced, and I think what she hated most 
was the fact that I was considered neces- 
sary — those were her own words — and was 
thrown at her head — literally. . . She suf- 
fered, but accepted me as a necessary evil 
until my passion had cooled; then she awoke 
to the truth that she lovgd me, when — it was 
too late. I saw it at the end, but I didn’t 
care by that time, and I never let her know 
that I knew. I realize that, as before, in 
that other case you know of, I am the 
greater sinner — and, dear Mrs. James, what 
I want to know is, do you consider me only 

247 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


a beast after all? Wait a minute! Can I 
regain my self-respect? Will the fact that 
I am repentant militate in my favour, and 
what do you think?” 

Carla James was silent, and her head 
sank forward as she thought deeply, though 
her hands were folded loosely in her lap. 
She had fought her battle, and she had come 
out of it unscathed. 

“I am afraid I can’t think any the worse 
of you, Mr. Marlowe,” she said slowly, “for 
you are really no worse than a thousand 
other men of your kind. The situation is to 
be deplored— don’t think I am countenanc- 
ing or excusing your conduct, — though the 
fact that you are not only willing to put 
your sin behind you, but have the courage to 
look back at it, makes me think that you 
have a fighting chance. Think it over care- 
fully, and answer my question: are you will- 
ing and able to take it?” 

“Yes,” he said, after a short pause, “be- 
fore God I am.” 

“Then,” she said, giving him her hand 
bravely, though her eyes were bright with 

248 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


unshed tears, “there is no reason why you 
should not succeed. I like you, Mr. Mar- 
lowe, principally because you are honest and 
fearless — it was no easy task for you to have 
opened your heart to me — and I want you 
to win. But liking is not — loving. Remem- 
ber that, and be warned in time.” 

“Dear Mrs. James, I hardly think you 
need have said that,” exclaimed Stephen, 
with a light laugh; “I respect you, but you 
forgot that I only understand one kind of 
love ” 

Carla James laughed lightly. 

“Oh! you absolutely refreshing man!” 
she cried, as soon as she could speak, “you 
couldn’t have said anything that proved 
more conclusively your youth and inexperi- 
ence. Now, mark my words — and you may 
believe me or not, as you please — after you 
have found your daughter — oh! yes, you 
will — some women will wish to marry you. 
Why, you’re only a young man still, 
and ■” 

“No,” objected Stephen, rising, “there 
you are wrong. I am quite certain I shall 

249 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


never marry. I have lived and loved, so 
there’s an end of it. I must say good-night, 
as I am afraid it’s frightfully late and Mrs. 
Wright will never ask me again. By the 
way, whenever you want to dine anywhere, 
you, and any of your friends, please call on 
me; and now before I go I must thank you 
with my whole heart for your kindness to 
me.” 

“Nonsense!” she said, as she gave him her 
hand, “I did nothing that a friend would 
not have done ” 

“My dear madam, it is hard to know one’s 
friends, but I know you for a woman with a 
heart of gold, one woman in a thousand, and 
my — friend, for you have made a man of 
me.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Marlowe,” she answered 
simply, for she was touched by the sincer- 
ity of his words, “and — good night!” 

Stephen crossed the room, bade Mrs. 
Wright good night, and made his way to 
his own apartment. 

Carla lit another cigarette and smoked 
thoughtfully for a few minutes, then, after 

250 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


Hughes-Tempest had gone, she rose and 
came across to her friend, saying: 

“Dear — this is no time for compliments. 
It is the hour of truth. I am tired to death 
and I am going to bed.” 

“So am I,” answered Hermy, yawning; 
“I found Hubert more than usually dull 
to-night. I feel more certain than ever that 
he is a young man without — promise. I 
wonder if I really mean that — but Stephen 
Marlowe ” 

“Oh! he,” interrupted Carla gently, “is a 
dear ” 

“What on earth were you and he talking 
about?” asked Hermy sleepily, as they left 
the room; “you seemed as thick as thieves. 
I am sure you were hatching some plot ” 

“On the contrary,” said Carla, as she 
laughed inconsequently; “he was telling me 
the history of his life ” 

“How unutterably dull!” exclaimed Mrs. 
Wright, yawning again; “men have so lit- 
tle originality nowadays! I don’t believe 
Hubert was so bad after all, but you, my 
poor angel, must have been bored to death.” 

251 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


Carla’s only answer was a huge yawn, 
which she turned into a light laugh as she 
entered her room and again called out good- 
night. What did it matter what her friend 
thought about — Marlowe? What did any- 
thing matter at this hour? Lord! how tired 
she was! 


252 


CHAPTER XVI 


BIESTER ASKS A QUESTION 

S TEPHEN saw a good deal of the two 
ladies during the following week, but 
usually in the evening, when they 
dined at some restaurant, and several times 
went to the theatre afterward. 

In the mornings he generally strolled 
about the neighborhood, looking in at shop 
windows or watching the smart equipages 
sweep by, and the life of the town in gen- 
eral. The afternoons he spent in sight-see- 
ing. And so the time passed pleasantly 
enough. 

One morning, remembering that he 
wished to look up a solicitor in the City, of 
whom Chubb had spoken, he asked a police- 
man to direct him how to get to the address 
written down in his pocket-hook. 

“The best, cheapest, and quickest is by 
the Tube from the Circus, sir,” said the man 


253 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


politely, pointing down the street as he 
spoke, “to Lane Station.” 

Marlowe thanked him and walked on. He 
had no particular business with the solicitor, 
one Lumley Soames, who had his chambers 
in Clifford’s Inn in Chancery Lane, except 
to make his acquaintance. 

Soon afterward, he reached Holborn. In 
walking through Chancery Lane, he was 
very much impressed with the imposing pile 
of historic Lincoln’s Inn. 

After some difficulty, he discovered a 
door bearing the name of “H. Lumley 
Soames, Solicitor;” so he opened the door 
and went in. 

The diminutive Soames was seated at a 
desk, a large law-book lying open before 
him. 

Marlowe handed him his visiting card, 
and mentioned Mr. Chubb’s name. Mr. 
Soames half rose, bowed, and waved Mar- 
lowe to a chair. 

“I thought I’d just drop in,” said Mar- 
lowe, looking about him curiously, “nothing 

254 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


special on hand now, but I’m a rich man and 
I might need advice later on.” 

The solicitor bowed, and the bow was a 
shade lower this time. He assured his client 
that he was willing and ready at all times 
to serve his interests. 

After a short business talk, Marlowe took 
his leave, being ushered to and bowed out 
of the door by the little solicitor with con- 
siderable ceremony. 

Turning to the right, Stephen found him- 
self in a little side-street, which happened to 
be Cursitor Street. He did not realize that 
he had absent-mindedly turned into it until 
he reached the intersection of Fetter Lane. 
Here he asked a passerby to direct him to 
the Strand, hoping that he could return 
home that way. He was told to continue 
to the right down Fetter Lane, and he 
would come to Fleet Street in a few min- 
utes. Then he could take a ’bus. 

He hailed a passing ’bus, and was lucky 
enough to find a vacant seat beside the 
driver. 

The driver talked incessantly, much to the 


255 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


amusement of Stephen, and he determined 
to go about more often in ’busses; someone, 
he remembered, had told him it was the best 
way to see London. He looked about him. 
The town appeared suddenly in a new guise. 
The picture of the West End that he knew, 
faded, and in its place another, unfamiliar 
London arose. 

The driver droned on, asking questions 
and answering them himself, which made it 
no strain for Stephen to listen. He had, in 
fact, been paying very little attention for the 
past few minutes. 

“On Fleet, we left the hold city of Lon- 
don be’ind,” the man was saying, pointing 
back over the route they had come with his 
whip, “and this ’ere’s Westminster. Tem- 
ple Bar, which used to stand hack there, to 
my mind divides the rich from the poor. 
They’re a poor lot, them hunemployed — 
and the swells — why shouldn’t they hen joy 
themselves? Arnser me that! Gam! I 
knew what yer goin’ to sy — why, in corse 
they ought. What’s money for but to give a 
256 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


bloke a tidy time, eh? — bly’me, say h’i, and 
charnce it!” 

This was so much in accordance with his 
thoughts that Stephen laughed heartily. 

“The Strand, sir,” went on the driver, 
grinning, “the gryte hartery between the 
City and the West Hend. Somerset ’ouse 
and Wellington Street! hoffices of the 
Paost, the mornin’ noospyper — down there, 
Haldwych! — the gyetu theatre — Noe 
Strand ’otel — Covink Garding markitt, to 
the north — to the south, the Hadelphi quar- 
ter nymed with streets after four brothers — 
’delphi theatre — parding, sir, wish to stop? 
Oh! ay — seen a friend — suttingly, sir, — 
thank you, sir!” 

The ’bus stopped, and Marlowe jumped 
out hurriedly, for he had seen Biester, who 
had recognized him and stopped. Just the 
man he wished to see! Biester, for his part, 
had a question to put to his friend, too. 

Stephen came up and shook hands heart- 
ily with Biester. 

“Where on earth did you come from?” he 
257 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


asked; “the last time I heard from you, you 
were sailing for home.” 

“I got here two days ago,” said Charlie, 
surprised. “Haven’t you seen my ads in 
the papers? They aren’t all theatrical — I 
thought you might have read them. ‘Mr. 
Biester buys a dog,’ or ‘Charles K. Biester 
goes ballooning’; say, Steve! you know I’m 
a great believer in keeping myself and my 
phiz before the pub. It all helps — every- 
thing does!” 

“You are a wonder!” said Stephen, with- 
out enthusiasm, as they walked on toward 
Charing Cross. 

“Occasionally I get sick or something,” 
continued the manager thoughtfully; “that’s 
all business, though, along with the rest.” 

“Yes, I guess that’s so,” agreed Stephen 
dryly; “what are you going to do now — are 
you busy or what?” 

“My Gawd! I’m never quiet, except 
when I’m asleep. As a matter of fact, I 
haven’t much doing until four to-day — so as 
it’s getting on to one o’clock, let’s go and get 
a bite somewhere.” 


258 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


The two set off at a brisker pace, crossing 
Trafalgar Square, then up Pall Mall, past 
the Haymarket to St. James’ Street, 
then after another turn, they were soon seat- 
ed in one of Biester’s favorite restaurants. 

Biester was greeted warmly by the head 
waiter. 

“Monsieur Beestaire! a thousand wel- 
comes,” he said, with his obsequious smile; 
“but I heard you had been ill — a little Du- 
bonnet, perhaps; it is aperitif and very forti- 
fying—” 

The little man bustled off and returned 
himself to serve the liquor. 

Biester glanced at his friend in a way that 
gave him to understand that this man at any 
rate read the papers and kept himself 
posted. 

“Jules is a good soul,” he said aloud, af- 
ter the man had gone to fetch the bill-of- 
fare, “and always looks after me well. Now 
what will you have to eat?” he went on, as 
he held the card to the light. 

“This is my treat, but — you order. I 
don’t much care what I have.” 


259 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“No,” objected Biester, “we’ll ‘dutch’ if 
you like, but — oh! well, if you insist.” 

“Call it for old times’ sake,” said Stephen, 
and the manager nodding his head, ordered 
the meal, helped out by shrewd suggestions 
from the wily Jules. 

Despite the fact that the fare was good, 
the wine perfection, and the occasion one of 
cheer, there was evidently an effort on the 
part of the two men to make conversation, 
as if some barrier of reserve had sprang up 
between them. He wanted to ask Marlowe 
if he knew where Miss Benner was. . . . 
But he did not know how to begin. He had 
heard rumours that the affair was no longer 
on the same footing as before, but he did 
not want to make the mistake of being too 
hasty. Everything depended on not put- 
ting himself in a false position. 

He had had the supreme effrontery to 
continue to advertise Miss Claussen as 
Louise Benner, and so far the ruse had been 
successful. How long he could carry out 
this deception he could not tell. Some one 
might begin to talk; a whispered word 

260 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


would be enough, and he wished he could 
find out where the girl was. Biester was 
perfectly aware that he was all-powerful 
in his profession, but there are some wrongs 
that even the greatest dare not attempt. 
Discovery now would be fatal. Stephen 
might know where she was. Here, possibly, 
was help at hand, but he was afraid to avail 
himself of it. After luncheon would be time 
enough. 

On the evening that Louise had been 
taken ill, it had been very cleverly and 
quickly managed. 

In an incredibly short time Miss Claussen 
appeared. 

Biester had whispered a word or two in 
her ear, and the girl, realizing the exigency 
of the situation, had replied audibly that she 
was all right and would go on again. The 
stage-hand had been standing close by and 
had heard what she had said; but did he 
suspect — could he, if he did, give the whole 
thing away? 

It was a situation he had to endure calmly 
least he arouse the faintest shadow of sus- 


261 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


picion, for suspicion would mean destruc- 
tion and ruin. But it was beginning to work 
on his nerves. It would be more comforta- 
ble, and certainly safer to bring it to an 
end. 

By a curious coincidence, Stephen also 
wished to ask for information concerning 
Miss Benner. He could not understand the 
indefinable sensation she had made on him 
the last time he had seen her, and hoped 
Biester might be able to clear up the mys- 
tery. 

He did not want to ask where she was. 
But he did want to learn what had hap- 
pened to change her personality so com- 
pletely. 

What was it that had made her regard 
him as a stranger? 

The constraint between the two had been 
increasing rather than diminishing, and, 
though Stephen was unaware of it. Biester 
had been watching him closely. 

Both men were conscious of the reserve, 
and both wished to bridge it, but neither 
262 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


dared. Both seemed either afraid or diffi- 
dent. 

Biester was the first to have the courage 
to break the tension, even if his remarks 
were somewhat forced. He made an effort 
to converse, but Stephen, who was growing 
more and more absorbed, did not seem to 
notice anything out of the ordinary. 

“The French certainly have the happy 
hand with their cookery; I’m always struck 
by it, aren’t you?” 

“Yes,” said Stephen, and was si- 
lent. 

“Aren’t you well, Steve?” asked Biester, 
with a well-simulated appearance of anx- 
iety; “you don’t seem to have any appetite. 
Do have something more ” 

“Thank you, no.” 

“You see I’m such an all-fired busy chap,” 
said Charlie, with a touch of weariness in his 
tone, for he was beginning to find his task 
irksome, “that it’s a relief to let my mind 
rest a piece ” 

“I should think you’d get worn out at 
times ” 


263 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“Dog-tired, Steve. It does me good to 
talk to you — you won’t give me away, will 
you? Old friendship game, with slow music, 
would prevent that, eh? I knew it. You’re 
a good fellow, Steve. Say! just listen to 
what I have on hand. Fannie Dreffler open- 
ing here to-morrow night — that’s one thing; 
three of my shows playing here ; a new show 
next week in New York — I’ve got to he 
there for that; a translation of a French 
play to look over — where was I? Laffan to 
see — Ethel, but she never gives me a mo- 
ment’s uneasiness; arrangements to close 
with a couple of English stars; and I guess 
that’s about all, but it’s enough and to spare. 
It isn’t as if it was all easy and smooth — 
nothing works out at first as you expect it 
will — but I don’t know the word fail — so 
I’ve got to work it all out mostly myself, 
you see. Then I’m sure it’s right.” 

Biester, who had been talking against 
time, stopped abruptly, for he saw that his 
companion was not paying the slightest at- 
tention to what he was saying. 

But he had gone too far to draw back'. 

264 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


What would Stephen do, and how would he 
take it if he had really broken with Louisa? 
That was what bothered him, but he sup- 
posed it could not be helped. 

“Say, Steve, — listen: I have something 
important to ask you ” 

“Say ahead, then,” answered Marlowe, 
looking at Biester for the first time with in- 
terest. 

“I wanted — to ask you what had become 
of — Miss — Benner?” 

Stephen gasped, hut looked hack fixedly 
at Biester. 

“What do you mean?” he asked breath- 
lessly, shading his eyes with one hand as if 
the light hurt them. But he knew, even be- 
fore the answer was given. 


265 




CHAPTER XVII 


MBS. WBIGHT GIVES A TEA 

M RS. WRGHT came in at half-past 
three and rang for her maid. Or- 
ders were given for tea to be served 
in the sitting-room at four o’clock and a fire 
lit there. Then she was dressed in her most 
fetching gown. 

Mrs. Wright loved form and ceremony. 
She did not understand simplicity of detail 
at all. It was quite natural for her to take 
an extended view of things, and to form her 
perspective by means of a lavish display of 
totally unnecessary details. 

Her nature was kindly but superficial, 
and this made her a good friend, but not 
such a satisfactory and whole-souled one as 
Mrs. James. One was absolutely straight- 
forward and simple, while the other loved 
circuitous byways to the goal toward which 
both were striving. It was these mutual 
characteristics that made Marlowe confess 
267 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


to Mrs. J ames that she would make the bet- 
ter builder, while her friend would prob- 
ably be the better architect, provided she 
had a great deal of money to spend; and 
Carla had understood. 

At five minutes to four she entered the 
drawing-room to see that all was as she 
liked it. The tray and its appointments 
were the best the hotel could provide, and 
sufficient confections were sent up to feed 
an army. Mrs. Wright had not only care- 
fully ordered every detail, but loved it — 
though instead of a large party, only two 
ladies were expected, Mrs. Leila Van Cuyp 
and her friend, the Honourable Mrs. Vere- 
ker, Laura Allington’s sister, that excellent 
woman who had stood by and helped Leila 
through all her recent trials. 

Laura despatched Mrs. Van Cuyp to 
London to be cared for, during the first 
month of her trouble, by the younger sister, 
who adored the very ground that Laura 
walked on, and who had always deferred 
to her, even to marrying the man whom 
Miss Allington had picked out. 

268 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


She knew that Leila would be made com- 
fortable, that she would be left undisturbed 
if she wished to be quiet; and if, on the other 
hand, she wished to be amused, Gladys Ver- 
eker would be only too glad to fall in with 
any plans that were proposed, though she 
would never take the initiative; and this was 
just what Leila Van Cuyp needed and 
longed for. 

Laura Allington, her sister, or their af- 
fairs, however, meant nothing to Mrs. Os- 
born Wright at this moment, as she was 
fully occcupied in studying each detail of 
the tea-service. At last after minute scru- 
tiny, she was satisfied that all her orders had 
been carried out according to her ideas. 

If she could have asked Leila alone, it 
would have pleased her better, but this, of 
course, she could not do. If Mrs. Vereker 
became unbearable, she could call in some- 
one who was expected to come to tea shortly, 
someone who could possibly be invented by 
Carla, if she ever returned from her lunch- 
eon; if she did not come soon, she would not 
be in time to save the possible situation. 

269 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


Carla did come at this moment, looking 
particularly prosperous, though somewhat 
dishevelled, as the wind had risen, and she 
had been blown about, on her walk back 
from Bruton Street. 

“This really looks — splendid!” she ob- 
served, nodding approvingly at the tea- 
table; “really, Hermy, you are wonderful — 
I can almost imagine Simmons and your 
own house before me! But who’s coming? 
— the Queen? It’s quite regal!” 

“Only Leila and the Vereker,” answered 
Hermy; “but don’t you really like the way 
everything is done? I think it’s quite — 
nice!” 

“Of course I do — Oh! by the way, 
Stephen Marlowe is coming to tea at five; 
he’s apt to be punctual, so I hope ” 

“Don’t worry, dear,” said Hermy sweet- 
ly; Leila will fly if anyone else comes — she 
was most particular about not having any- 
body else.” 

“You expect me, then?” asked Carla: 
“hut, of course, I’ll come and entertain the 
270 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


Honourable for you, so that you may have 
Leila all to yourself.” 

“Thank you.” And then Mrs. Wright 
suddenly recollected a piece of news she 
wished to tell Carla: “By the way, I’m sure 
I saw Marjorie Camp to-day — at least, al- 
most.” 

“When? — where?” asked Mrs. James ex- 
citedly. 

“It was this way. I was on my way to 
Cavendish Square to see Leila, but there 
was such a crowd in Bond Street, I told the 
chauffeur to go round some other way, for 
I was late as it was, and Leila said she was 
going out punctually at eleven; so he went 
by Hanover Square and Holies Street. 
There, of course, as luck would have it, 
there was a block, just by the house that 
Lord Byron was born in — oh! you know the 
one with his bust on it — well, it’s 24 or 42, I 
don’t remember which — it doesn’t make 
the slightest difference, though— only it was 
opposite to that we stuck, and at the house 
just above that a hansom drew up at the 
curb, and a young girl with a chiffon veil 

271 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


over her face alighted — yes, she was dressed 
in black, and with a black veil. 

The motor started up suddenly, and I 
looked away for a moment; when I peered 
back she had disappeared. I only saw her 
for the fraction of a second, but I am almost 
certain it was Marjorie — her walk, the way 
she held up her dress — oh! it was unmis- 
takable! What can it mean, I wonder? I 
thought they were in Paris.” 

“So did I,” answered Carla, “and I must 
not forget to question Stephen about the 
Camps’ whereabouts, when he comes to 
tea.” He would be sure to know, as he was 
in frequent communication with Chubb, 
who was their mutual adviser. “But I must 
fly and change my dress.” 

“Do,” agreed Hermy, lighting the wick 
of the kettle, for it was just striking the 
hour, “and come in to support me when you 
are ready.” 

Half an hour later, Carla entered the 
room, kissed Leila warmly, shook hands 
with Mrs. Vereker, and talked with her for 
272 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


some time, as she had promised Hermy she 
would. 

Mrs. Wright, taking advantage of this 
move, entered into earnest conversation 
with Leila, with an eye in reserve for Mrs. 
Yereker, whom she quietly observed from 
time to time. 

“I’m glad it was all managed so quickly 
and easily,” she said, referring to the di- 
vorce, “but it must have been a dreadful 
strain, my poor darling! You must try and 
live it down, those frightful days !” 

“I am trying to,” said Leila, “but it was 
too horrible for me to be able to forget so 
soon. That Stanley — but no, I will not 
speak of him — that is all over and done 
with.” 

“It must be very interesting,” remarked 
Carla, as Mrs. Yereker finished an account 
of a recent visit to Parliament; “but the suf- 
fragettes ” 

“Oh, don’t speak of them, they are too 
frightful even to think of ” 

“Hermy!” asked Carla casually, “what 
time did you say Mr. Marlowe was com- 

273 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


ing?” She had got to the point where the 
Honourable Mrs. Vereker was beginning to 
get on her nerves, and seized on Stephen’s 
arrival in desperation, just as a drowning 
man catches at a straw. Mrs. Wright, after 
a curious look at her, played up well, as she 
always did. 

“Mr Marlowe!” she said interrogatively; 
“it was five I think he said, wasn’t it?” 

“Oh! I must go if anyone else is ex- 
pected,” cried Leila Van Cuyp, rising like 
a frightened dove; “and you promised — ” 

“He is more of a friend of Carla’s than 
mine,” answered Hermy, unblushingly. 
“I’m sorry you won’t wait, though; I have 
hardly seen anything of you. I’m sure he 
won’t bite you — he’s really tame!” 

“I couldn’t think of it; come, we must be 
off. I couldn’t bear to be caught. It’s al- 
most five now; oh! Gladys, do — do hurry! 
I can’t endure seeing anyone I don’t know 
well; it makes me so frightfully nervous!” 

After the two ladies had gone, Mrs. 
Wright turned upon Carla. 

“You wretched woman!” she cried an- 

274 


THE MERCY OF FATE 

grily, “how could you do it? You have no 
patience, no self-control. That’s the great 
fault with the Americans of to-day; they 
should copy the manners of the Old World 
and imitate its poise — its — ” 

“Frankly,” said Carla, laughing, “I 
couldn’t stand that Vereker woman any 
longer! She is estimable and worthy, I 
grant you, but — oh. Lord! Nor could I 
stand hearing you dissect the tenderest and 

most sacred feelings of my poor Leila ” 

“My dear Carla, you ought to be ashamed 
of yourself!” exclaimed Mrs. Wright se- 
verely; “it was a great relief to the poor 
thing to speak out to me. It is much better 
than continuing to repress herself. Besides, 

it really was pathetically beautiful ” 

“That’s what the surgeons always say — ” 
sneered Carla scornfully; but Hermy, 
really annoyed, flounced out of the room, as 
she feared to hear more, for Carla might go 
on to suggest that she had tried to impress 
the Vereker woman — that that was the real 
object of the tea-party, so that was why she 
fled, feeling that discretion was the better 

275 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


part of valour, for no woman can patiently 
stand by and hear the truth, and Carla al- 
ways told the truth when roused. 

After Mrs. Wright had left the room, 
leaving her friend in possession of the field, 
Carla stood by the fire in deep thought. 
Finally she looked up and laughed softly. 

“What a delightful fraud Hermy is!” 
she said, sighing regretfully; “but I do ad- 
mire her more than anyone I know. I never 
saw another woman who could be so consis- 
tent in making believe, and I often wonder 
how much she believes herself when she 
must know the case is simply — unbeliev- 
able.” 

Carla laughed at her Irish bull, and rang 
for fresh tea. A few minutes later Stephen 
was announced. 

They discussed the weather with exem- 
plary persistency until the waiter returned 
with the tea, and then the polite restraint 
between them gave way to their usual spirit 
of goodfellowship, as the servant went out 
and left them alone. 

“Any news?” she asked as he poured out 
276 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


his tea, and held out a lump of sugar in the 
tongs toward him interrogatively. 

“None at all,” nodding his head in the 
affirmative; “what is there to do, except 
wait patiently? If there was only some- 
thing tangible! But there isn’t, and I hate 
to feel that I am powerless — that I can’t do 
anything to hurry matters up. Don’t you 
understand? I’ve always been a man of ac- 
tion and I’ve been unusually successful ever 
since I was a young man. It’s hard — what 
can I do?” 

“There are three things you might try,” 
suggested Mrs. James after a pause, dur- 
ing which she sipped her tea reflectively. 
“In the first place, you might go into the 
world — that wouldn’t be difficult — a few 
good letters are easily obtained, and — think 
what your money could do for you! You 
would have to keep your eyes and ears wide 
open, and you might see or hear something. 
It’s all horribly indefinite, though. Again, 
you might familiarize yourself with the 
London theatrical world, or, lastly, you 
might try the slums ” 


277 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“You are suggesting detective work in 
high and low places,” he said, smiling bitter- 
ly: “but you are right, I don’t think it would 
have any surprising results — it isn’t practi- 
cal. I have a very strong feeling that pure 
chance must bring us together.” 

“And I assert again, dear friend,” she re- 
plied firmly, “that that possibility is not by 
any means so remote as you think — ” 

“But what will reveal her to me?” 

Stephen put down his cup and was silent. 
He fell into a revery, gazing with rapt at- 
tention into the fire. 

Then he looked up and shivered. 

“Do give me another cup of tea,” he said, 
and his voice sounded strained and harsh. 
“I’m cold.” 

“You were so absorbed,” remarked Carla, 
as she poured out a fresh cup of tea, “that 
I could not bear to interrupt. “I hope you 
have arrived at some conclusion.” 

“No,” answered Marlowe, more brusque- 
ly than he intended, “you know I have 
not—” 

“But do not despair, dear Mr. Marlowe, 
278 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


you will meet your daughter — I know it — 
oh, yes, I know it.” 

“I wish I could believe that, for I’m los- 
ing faith in myself,” said Stephen sadly, 
“and that’s a bad sign; it’s the beginning of 
the end.” 

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Mrs. James 
brightly, for she saw the necessity of chang- 
ing the subject; “do you know that Hermy 
is almost certain that she saw Marjorie 
Camp in town to-day?” 

“Oh! that’s impossible!” laughed Stephen, 
as about this he could be positive, “for I 
heard from Chubb to-day, and he writes 
that they are in Paris. Whereabouts did you 
say she saw her?” 

“In front of a house in Holies Street, 
near Cavendish Square,” replied she, “next 
to that one with the bust of Byron on it — •” 

“That’s really very odd!” mused Stephen, 
“looks like a case of double personality, for 
here is Chubb’s letter, written just nine days 
ago, and you can see that his information is 
exceedingly concise; besides, we both know 
he is absolutely reliable.” 

279 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“Hermy spoke of the girl as if she were 
a creature of flesh and blood,” insisted Mrs. 
James, as he glanced over the kettle. 

“I can’t bear to talk of this any more,” he 
said with a sigh, “and any way I must be 
going. So I’ll say au revoir — but not good- 
bye,” he added jocosely. “I’m sorry to have 
made such an ass of myself.” 

“I’m sorry to say it is good-bye,” cor- 
rected Mrs James regretfully, “for we’re 
off to-morrow.” 

“You are going away? I’m sorry,” he 
murmured as he held out his hand; “I’m 
sorry,” he repeated earnestly. “But good- 
luck to you, and — good-bye!” 

Stephen left the room rather abruptly. 
He hated partings. And this one from Mrs. 
James made him particularly sad. He had 
learned to love this splendid woman, for he 
knew that she was indeed a true friend. He 
decided to go out and take a short drive. He 
continued his way down town, and when he 
reached the street he directed the commis- 
sionaire to call him a hansom. When one 
had swung round with a flourish and drew 
280 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


up before the door, he stepped in and said 
that he would take it hy the hour. 

“Where to, sir?” inquired the driver, af- 
ter he had started, speaking down through 
the trap. 

“Anywhere, except the park.” 

“Some of the Squares looks fine in the 
hevenin’ light, sir — ” 

“Anywhere,” growled Marlowe; “only go 
on, will you?” The man closed the trap, 
with a vindictive snap, and whipped up the 
horse. 

The cab continued its course, through 
Berkeley Square, turned into Davies Street, 
and came to Oxord Street; there it swung 
to the left. 

With a sharper turn, almost a lurch, the 
cab entered Holies Street. Stephen awoke 
from his reverie. He looked out. A house 
with a bust of Byron on its front arrested his 
attention. 

“That house on the right, the one with the 
bust on it!” he called out, raising the trap to 
give the order. I wish to stop there!” 

The cab came to a halt, and Marlowe 


281 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


jumped out. In front of him was another 
hansom. Beside it, a woman in a dark dress 
and holding a purse open in her hand, was 
expostulating with the driver. Stephen 
heard the lady admit that she never knew 
what to pay. But she paid him the price he 
demanded, and as she turned away, saw 
Marlowe. 

“I beg your pardon — can I be of any as- 
sistance?” 

“Mr. Marlowe!” she said, and suddenly 
paused as if in a quandary. 

“You!” he exclaimed, for he had recog- 
nized her; but Marjorie stopped him with 
an appealing gesture. 

“Please come in; my — mother will be — 
glad to see — you.” 


282 


CHAPTER XVIII 


THE RESULT OF A MEETING 

M ARJORIE, after a backward glance 
at Stephen, unlocked the door, and 
he followed her in, though he was 
still excited and a good deal bewildered. 

He could not help but feel that there was 
a mystery, for it was in the very air. 

The very silence between them, as they 
entered the dimly-lit hall, only intensified 
his desire for enlightenment. 

She went directly into the library, and, 
after drawing the portieres, turned and for 
the first time faced him. 

“Will you wait here for a few minutes,” 
she asked, evidently not completely at her 
ease, at which he wondered, “while I pre- 
pare my mother for your visit? She has 
been a good deal broken of late, and I try 
to spare her all the anxiety I can.” 

“But won’t you explain?” begged 
Stephen, as he advanced toward her. 

283 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“No,” she answered in a tone that was in- 
tended to be curt, in order possibly to cover 
some deeper emotion. “I — my mother will 
tell you — all. Wait here and she will come 
to you shortly.” 

She turned and left the room A certain 
repression in her manner had silenced and 
abashed him. What could it mean? It was 
certainly very strange! 

She had spoken to him in the impersonal 
tone which one reserves for strangers. There 
was none of the old-time freedom, and some- 
how he felt afraid of her. Why should he 
wait here? These people evidently did not 
wish to see him. Perhaps he had better go 
— or should he wait? He could hardly re- 
treat now that he was actually here and 
waiting for the mistress of the house to ap- 
pear. 

Yes, that would be best. Of course they 
had some good reason for concealing them- 
selves — it was their business, and not his. 
It had been they he had seen in the restau- 
rant that day! Had they seen him too? and 
had they purposely avoided him? If so, his 

284 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


entrance into their house was all the more 
unpardonable. But what reason could they 
have had for avoiding him? Had he offend- 
ed them? and, if so, in what way? He had 
no recollection of having done so. 

A servant came in, lighted the lamps, 
drew the blinds, and, as he turned to go, said 
that Mrs. Worthington would be down di- 
rectly. 

Stephen stared at the man’s retreating 
figure in consternation. Had he heard 
aright? Worthington! — the name was to- 
tally strange to him. What could it all 
mean? She must be a sister of Mrs. Camp: 
that was it. Mrs Camp was not well enough 
to see him, so she had sent her representa- 
tive to dismiss him — politely, of course, but 
to get rid of him with all possible de- 
spatch. 

Perhaps this Mrs. Worthington was a su- 
perior housekeeper to whom was delegated 
the disagreeable task of turning him out. 
Why, if this were so, should he wait to be 
dismissed? He moved quickly to the door 
and listened intently. Not a sound, except 

285 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


the faint noise of the traffic without. Could 
he get out unseen? 

Suppose he were observed by a servant, \ 
who happened to be the one who had given 
the message, what explanation could he of- 
fer for his sudden departure? The man i 
might want to detain him, knowing nothing i 
of his presence in the house. 

He thought it best to remain. After all, 
he had wished to go into this house— it had 
been done naturally; so why worry? He 
hoped to discover the reason of this extra- 
ordinary state of affairs soon. 

Mrs. Worthington was taking her own 
time. Why did she not come? 

What could it mean? 

He walked over to the door leading to 
the hall and listened. The soft closing of a 
distant door was all he heard. He opened 
his watch, and saw that barely three minutes 
had passed. It seemed an age. Was no one 
coming? The servant had said Mrs. 
Worthington would be down directly. Who 
was Mrs. Worthington? What was she do- 
ing in this house? 


286 


THE MERCY OF FATE 

All at once a sense of unreality enveloped 
him, and he wondered what he was doing 
here and why he had come! 

Five minutes passed. He was beginning 
to grow more impatient. He walked up and 
down the room. Again he listened, straining 
every nerve to catch any possible sound. 
Yes, a door had closed softly somewhere 
upstairs. He made out whispered words. 
Someone was coming down the staircase. 

He walked over to a table and caught up 
a book, pretending to be absorbed in its con- 
tents. 

The door opened, and a lady entered. He 
saw that she was feeble and walked with a 
stick, and that her hair was snow-white un- 
der the widow’s cap she was wearing, and 
that her face was sad and lined with suffer- 
ing; but as he put down the book and came 
forward, she spoke a few words in greeting. 
Then he recognized her as Mrs. Camp. 

“It is pleasant to see you again, Mr. Mar- 
lowe,” she said, giving him her hand for a 
moment; “won’t you sit down?” 

He wondered what she had to say to him. 

287 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


He saw that she was very much changed. 
She had suddenly grown into an old woman. 

“Yes,” she replied, as she read what was 
in his mind, “I am an old, a very old woman. 
Please don’t think it necessary to apologize, 
as I am only too conscious of my infirmities. 
Age had to come, but it came rather sud- 
denly to me.” 

“I am sorry,” murmured Stephen in some 
confusion; I am afraid — I — ” 

“No, believe me, I am glad you have 
found us, for I feel that I have no right to 
shut — Theo out from every pleasure.” 

“Theo! — ” cried Stephen involuntarily, 
“who is Theo?” 

“She is my daughter,” she faltered. And 
then with a touch of her old impulse she 
continued earnestly: “Mr. Marlowe, I may 
speak — frankly and — openly to you? Mr. 
Chubb told me if I ran across you, I could 
— trust you. My only — excuse is that I 
am very much — alone, and it would be a ser- 
vice to me if you would — prove yourself a 
friend and listen for a little while, only a 
little while. Mr. Chubb has been so kind 


288 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


and thoughtful, but he — is not here and I 
have only told my daughter what I thought 
— necessary. She is young, standing on 
the threshold of life — ” 

“I understand,” broke in Stephen sym- 
pathetically. “Believe me, I appreciate your 
confidence and trust. I am flattered — I — 
hut these are empty words, for I consider it 
an honour and a privilege to be allowed to 
serve you.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. I believe your 
words come from your heart. Poor Theo 
was afraid she had made a mistake in bring- 
ing you in. I confess it was a shock to find 
myself once more in touch with the world 
I have tried to forget, but now I am glad 
— I am glad. If you only knew what a com- 
fort it is to have the prospect of a friend to 
cling to whom I can speak as if to myself — ” 

“If you really care to speak freely to me 
— why say what your heart dictates, frankly 
and unreservedly.” 

“How good you are,” she exclaimed 
warmly. 

Stephen, obeying an iresistible impulse, 
289 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


looked up to meet the eyes of the old lady 
fastened upon him. In her glance he read 
hesitation, uncertainty, and, he fancied, 
doubt. 

“Mr. Marlowe,” she said slowly, regard- 
ing him gravely, though he saw that her 
former emotion had given place to a firmer 
and most pronounced resolution, “I might 
as well confess to you that I — that is we — 
my daughter and I — both saw and recog- 
nized you that day at the Princess’ Restau- 
rant, but I purposely— ^avoided you. I 
could not hear just then to see anyone who 
reminded me of what I called my dead life, 
and — I had a most disagreeable experience 
in Paris, which was the reason we decided to 
leave there.” 

“I did not tell all to you, just enough to 
make my explanation sound probable; and 
she has been a great comfort — she has asked 
no questions, and has been most tactful in 
sparing me. It was because of what hap- 
pened in Paris that we, or rather I, made 
up my mind to come here and settle for the 
time being. When you saw us we were 

290 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


house-hunting, and the reason we went to 
such a public place for lunch was because 
my daughter wished it so much, and I — 
could not refuse her.” 

When I left home, I did not see the neces- 
sity for concealing our plans, and I did not 
even think of doing so. It was a reporter 
who came one day — he was admitted by mis- 
take — and his impertinence, besides the an- 
noyance he caused me, made me decide to 
buy his silence. Yes, I knew it was foolish, 
but I lost my head. It was after that we 
came to London secretly, and for that rea- 
son we moved here, also in secret. To make 
our presence here secure, I engaged this 
house under an assumed name — ” 

“Then you are — ” 

“Mrs. Worthington,” she answered with 
quiet dignity. “My daughter’s real name 
being Theodora, I just began calling her 
Theo, so you see — how it — is?” 

“Yes, but you must have had some — rea- 
son for concealment. I am afraid I don’t 
— but I have no right to inquire. Forgive 
me.” 


291 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“Please, Mr. Marlowe, do not speak of 
forgiveness in this connection,” begged Mrs. 
Worthington earnestly, “or you will make 
what I have decided to do more — diffi- 
cult.” 

“Why, of course,” agreed Stephen, some- 
what taken aback, “but I think I’d really 
better go — ” 

“And that is what I don’t want you to 
do,” objected Mrs. Worthington, with a 
touch of genuine spirit. “I have no reason 
for telling you what I would not care to 
have anyone else know, except that — oh! 
Mr. Marlowe, women are incomprehensible 
— they hardly know how they reach certain 
conclusions; but please be patient, and listen 
to me.” 

“Anything I can do” — began Marlowe. 

“All, Mr. Marlowe, all or nothing.” 

He was about to speak when, perceiving 
his purpose, she forestalled him. 

“No,” she said with a sigh, “do not say 
anything yet, for I intend to tell you the 
truth about what happened when my hus- 
band — died.” 


292 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“In the first place, Mr. Marlowe, you 
must know that my husband’s death was not 
a natural one. He — took his own life. It 
is a terrible thing to do, but that is what he 
did. After he dropped — dead on the floor 
of the Stock Exchange, he was removed to 
Mr. Chubb’s office, where I and his doctor 
were summoned. I was present at his exam- 
ination, which was thorough — the coroner 
being present, — and, to make a long story 
short, it was certified correctly, as far as the 
official tests went, that his death was due to 
apoplexy. 

“Later, when Mr. Chubb and I were 
alone, he gave me a note to read. It was 
addressed to me by my late husband. In it 
he stated he had used a drug, an Indian 
one, and — so he died. I found out that he 
had stopped just short of disgrace, and it 
was I, whom he never trusted with his con- 
fidence in matters of business, who paid off 
his debts, bought the influence which saved 
his name — yes, Mr. Marlowe, it was I who 
did this. You may ask me why I did it. Be- 
cause, my friend, if I may call you so, 

293 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


though I meant very little to him, I loved 
him. God forgive me! — I loved him.” 

“If he had taken my advice, which he 
had often scorned — I could have kept him 
safe. But the gold mania had him in its 
deadly grip, and he could not stop. He 
went on, stopping at nothing, until he con- 
trolled almost all. If his last scheme had 
gone through — but there was a tiny flaw, 
which he luckily saw in time — he would, in- 
deed have had all in his power. And he 
would have loved me as I loved him until 
the end!” she concluded with infinite sad- 
ness. 

During this conversation, Marlowe 
learned that love could be both majestic and 
unselfish; that it must have complete trust; 
also, and this was the beginning of his 
knowledge, that it enveloped and pervaded 
a woman’s nature — that it was her all — her 
life. Man could look upon love as a pastime, 
or a thing apart, being at the same 
time both sincere and earnest, but his love 
was not the same as a woman’s. Man is as a 
knight, who enters the list, fully equipped; 

294 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


but it is of his charger and trappings, his 
armour and his appearance, that he is think- 
ing, not of the prize of pure womanhood 
who waits to crown him as the victor; for her 
it is the man, the hero alone ; with her noth- 
ing else counts. Stephen was deeply af- 
fected by her words. 

“Dear Mrs. Worthington,” he said fin- 
ally, and there was a new tone in his voice, 
“I wish to thank you for telling me all this; 
believe me, you will never have cause to re- 
gret it.” 

“Thank you! she answered simply; “you 
are so good — so good!” 

Later on, when Marlowe reached his hotel 
his mind was full of many thoughts. He 
tossed his hat and stick aside, and sank into 
a chair. The face of the old lady, which 
had been full of trouble when he first saw it, 
rose in fancy and smiled gratefully at him. 
But the picture which remained longest was 
one of a young girl, also in black, who 
smiled at him too. 


295 



CHAPTER XIX 


AN ADVERTISEMENT ANSWERED 

L ETTERS and bills! Stephen opened 
one after the other, and still the 
number did not seem appreciably to 
diminish. The letters were from Mrs. 
Wright, Mrs. James, and the last was from 
Mr. Wright. What could he have to say? 

James wrote at his wife’s request to say 
he hoped Marlowe could join them in Rome, 
where they expected to arrive in a few days. 
A letter, care of their bankers there, would 
always reach him. He had heard Marlowe’s 
praises so often sung by his wife, that he 
was really anxious to meet him. 

All three letters were written from some 
small town in Italy, and those of both 
ladies were full of amusing details of their 
trip and its mishaps ; especially that of Mrs. 
James, in whose letter he recognized a new 
note of happiness; and he was undeniably 
glad, for she had hinted it would be due to 

297 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


his efforts if a reconciliation took place be- 
tweeen her husband and herself. 

But that was nonsense, so he laughed as 
he tossed the letter aside, to take up the next 
one, which was a bill from his tailor in Clif- 
ford Street. Other bills were opened, most- 
ly from Bond Street purveyors, and these 
glanced over, he took up the last one. 

“I have reason to believe,” said the writer, 
“that I can give you some information about 
the girl you are looking for. Shall call at a 
quarter to five this afternoon. 

(Signed) “D” 

What could it mean? The letter was 
written in a refined hand. 

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock 
at the door. A young woman came in. She 
advanced to the centre of the room. Mar- 
lowe looked at her questioningly for a mo- 
ment. 

“Did you wish to see me?” inquired he 
at last, motioning the girl to a chair by his 
desk. “I am Stephen Marlowe.” 

298 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“Then there is no mistake,” she answered 
promptly, seating herself and leisurely 
drawing off her gloves, “for I am — the 
daughter of — Linda Leigh ” 

“You are — what?” cried Stephen, jump- 
ing quickly to his feet. 

“I am the daughter of Linda Leigh,” she 
repeated; “does that surprise you? Ah! let 
me tell you how I found it out.” 

He was overcome. He waited for a few 
minutes with closed eyes until he recovered. 

“Go on!” he muttered hoarsely. 

“After my mother died,” she began obe- 
diently, “I was taken care of by an old 
woman, who I always believed was my 
mother’s sister — her name was Jameson; 
but I never could see why I was called 
Dora Jameson, because my mother’s name 
was, I believe, Manson — though I never 
knew what her maiden name was. I 
had a feeling, naturally, that this was cu- 
rious, but I never could get any informa- 
tion on the subject from Aunt Annie, as she 
taught me to call her. Sometimes I thought 
she had some reason for concealing her own 

299 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


name, and that Jameson was an alias. I 
wondered, too, if she had interchanged the 
two names, either for the purpose of con- 
cealing her own identity, or for some unex- 
plained reason, and then again I thought 
there might possibly be some mystery about 
my — mother.” 

“What made you think that?” asked 
Stephen quickly. 

“I don’t know,” she answered, “except 
that my — aunt always put me off if I spoke 
or asked questions about her. This, of 
course, made me all the more curious, and I 
began to wonder what had been the mystery 
about her, for mystery, I was convinced, 
there had been. 

“Ah! — when did your mother die?” he 
asked suddenly. 

“When I was born,” she answered with- 
out hesitation. “Aunt Annie admitted that 
much herself, and I was brought at once to 
the house in B — where Mrs. Jameson was 
then living.” 

“How long did you remain with her?” 

“Until last year.” 


300 


THE MERCY, OF FATE 


“Why did you leave her?” 

“We had a misunderstanding. She ac- 
cused me of thieving, and, when it was too 
late, admitted that she had been mistaken. 
She begged me to stay, that she was ill and 
needed care, hut the story had spread, so I 
left. I could not stay.” 

“You said that you were Linda Leigh’s 
daughter, and that if I were Stephen Mar- 
lowe there was no mistake,” he said after a 
pause. “How do you explain those state- 
ments?” 

“I’ll tell you; but first you’d better hear 
about the supposed theft, for it all fits to- 
gether like parts of a puzzle. She thought 
I’d stolen a paper, and I denied it. She 
called me a thief, and the story, as I said, 
got round. Before I left I found a charred 
piece of paper, like a bit of an old letter, 
quite by chance in an old stove that stood in 
an outhouse. I tried to put it together, and 
I made out parts that made almost — a sen- 
tence.” 

“Your name was written there, for one 
thing, and that was why I said what I did 

301 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


about there being no mistake if you were 
really Stephen Marlowe. I’ll draw a fac- 
simile of the paper, and put a line where 
words are left out. It will look more natu- 
ral, and you can see it as I saw it. Here it 
is!” she exclaimed, after she had worked dili- 
gently to reproduce on a sheet of paper, the 
original she had in mind. 

“ * — Stephen Marlowe — never forgive — 
died — her child — and promise — to keep — 
secret Dor — was Linda Leigh’s child — ’ 

“This I enclosed in an envelope, with a 
line to her telling her where I had found it.” 

“It is very curious,” said Stephen, as if to 
himself; “but haven’t you any other — any 
written proof? 

“No,” and she shook her head; “but you 
might write to Mrs. Jameson for it. She 
lives in the town of Waterville, Connecticut, 
at 16 Church Street. She moved from B — 
last year. You see, I’d be glad to do what 
I could to help you out, but I couldn’t bring 
myself to write to her after what happened.” 

“No, I suppose not,” said Stephen, de- 
termining to follow up this clue by writing 

302 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


himself; “but what are you doing here? 
You’re very young to he traveling alone.” 

“Yes, I am,” she admitted, smiling; “but 
I had to live somehow, so I went on the 
stage. I was over here with the Dream of 
Love company, and I stayed over a steamer 
with another girl to keep me from getting 
lonely, because I wanted to see you. Do 
you think I am really your daughter?” 

“I can’t he certain until I hear from Mrs. 
Jameson,” he answered slowly; “but where 
can I find you if it should be necessary?” 

“We leave on the San Francisco next 
week. I’m down as Dora Manson — that’s 
my stage name; and letters in New York, 
care of the K — Theatre, will always reach 
me. I want to tell you one thing before I 
go: I believe you are my father, and ” 

“I — I don’t know what to think,” was the 
bewildered reply. “I’ll let you know. I 
hope it may be so. It’s too vague yet to 
speak with certainty. How old did you say 
you were?” 

“Almost — twenty-two. I was born in — 
1886 ” 


803 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


He was inclined to accept her for what 
she posed as being — his daughter. His 
daughter! — and yet the evidence of a few 
detached words on a half-burnt sheet that 
Dora was the child of Linda Leigh was not, 
could not, be conclusive, unsupported by 
further corroborative testimony. And Mrs. 
Jameson should contribute that, if she 
would. There could be no valid reason why 
she should refuse. Who was Mrs. Annie 
Jameson? Had he ever heard the name be- 
fore? He had a faint remembrance. Why 
yes, Marjorie — Theo — had mentioned a 
woman by the name of Jameson! That was 
it. She had been her nurse. What an odd 
coincidence of names! The names were, 
however, the only point of resemblance, for 
Theo’s mother had been Alida Mason; she 
had been adopted at the age of five years by 
Mrs. Camp, now Mrs. Worthington; her 
birthplace was unknown to him, and even 
the town where she lived. Whereas in Dora’s 
case it was different; she had been born near 
B — and lived near B — and she stated, on 
304 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


somewhat flimsy evidence, that her mother 
had been Linda Leigh. 

After mature deliberation this evidence 
did not appear to him as improbable as at 
first, and he was more and more convinced 
that Mrs. Jameson could make it certain. 
Of course, he could not force her to give him 
an answer; hut so much depended on it — 
the work of the last twenty years, in fact — 
that he would use every argument to induce 
her to do so before he could acknowledge 
himself beaten. 

Who was the Jameson woman that she 
should be a potential obstacle to the work- 
ing out of his cherished plans? Who was 
she? Whoever she was, he would not remain 
passive while there was a chance that Linda’s 
child — his child — ah! fool that he was! — 
why, of course, Jameson and Manson were 
one and the same person! Why had he not 
already guessed what was perfectly obvious? 

The reason for the change of name in 
Eliza’s case was clear to Stephen. She 
wished to keep Linda’s secret, besides keep- 
ing her child and its father more surely 
305 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


apart. What possible reason was there why 
she should have hit upon it? Was it a family 
name? Yes, for Eliza’s mother, he re- 
membered, had been a Jameson. What more 
natural than that she should add it to her 
own name, first as a surname, and then drop 
her family name, leaving the Jameson in its 
place? 

Miss Manson had been born in S — , fifty 
miles away. What more natural than that 
she should appear as a perfectly respectable 
member of society in the town of B — un- 
der the name of Jameson? 

A woman of her age and quiet habits only 
needed a wedding ring, which was not diffi- 
cult to obtain — the one she was wearing was 
her mother’s — to become what she appeared 
to be, without danger of awkward question- 
ing, or the awkward possibility of doubt be- 
ing cast upon her right to do so. 

He wrote his letter to Eliza, but addressed 
it to Mrs. Annie Jameson in Waterville, as 
Dora had suggested. 

While waiting developments Marlowe 
cultivated more closely the acquaintance of 
306 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


the ladies in Holies Street, until he formed 
the habit of often dropping in about tea- 
time, and this naturally brought him much 
into the society of Theo. 

He was conscious both of the growing 
strength of the attraction for Theo and the 
weakening character of the sense of duty 
toward Dora. 

The fact that Eliza had posed as the girl’s 
aunt, not only to the girl herself, but to the 
world, and moreover had cleverly introduced 
an element of mystery into Dora’s mind 
concerning her mother, only made the link 
between them stronger in his mind. But, 
meanwhile, Theo’s lovely eyes were upon 
him, and he sighed as the time passed so 
slowly. 

At the end of ten days the S. S. San 
Francisco steamed westward from South- 
ampton on her way to New York. Stephen 
read the announcement calmly, but with a 
feeling of sadness tugging at his heart- 
strings. 

The next day the papers were full of an 
account of the terrible disaster. The San 


307 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


Francisco had foundered during a dense 
fog, and later it was discovered that a Ger- 
man steamer of lesser tonnage had rammed 
the larger boat amidships. In an incredibly 
short time the vessel had sunk, with one 
boatful of survivors adrift on a raging sea; 
but these last, a mere handful of miserable 
wretches, were never seen or heard of again. 

Marlowe’s first emotion was one of anger 
that fate had snatched his child from him. 
He only hoped she had not suffered, and 
that death had come suddenly. 

A note came from Theo, saying that her 
mother hoped Mr. Marlowe was free for the 
following evening, and would give them the 
pleasure of his company at dinner at eight 
o’clock. No one else was coming. 


308 


CHAPTER XX 


A STRUGGLE BETWEEN LOVE AND DUTY 

W HAT a gamut of emotions Stephen 
passed through in the following 
twenty-four hours only those 
who have truly loved can even imagine. 

Love’s pain was his, also the fear of love, 
but — would love’s joy, too, ever be vouch- 
safed him? Did she already love him? Would 
she ever love him? 

He could not help contrasting this love 
with that which he had felt for poor 
Linda. 

And yet he felt as if he must always have 
loved Theo. There was something sacred, he 
thought, about his love for Theo, something 
he could not hear any one to know except 
Theo herself, and he feared to put the ques- 
tion which sooner or later he must ask, and 
whose answer would mean so much to him. 
He was going to see her to-night! Should 

309 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


he speak then? Would an occasion offer? 
Could she by any possibility love him as he 
loved her? And again he feared in the very 
midst of his gladness. 

Theo! He loved her. It was wonderful. 
But what of her? Was she thinking of him 
at this moment — could she be? 

What a fool he was! An addle-pated fool! 
Nothing more or less. And yet — he knew 
that he loved this woman, loved her beyond 
reason, beyond everything. 

He had tried hard to make a gentleman of 
himself ; more than that, in his inmost heart 
he had tried to make a man of himself, and 
he felt in some measure he had succeeded. 
Ah! if she would only think so, too. 

He rang for Jenkins and completed his 
toilet. This done, he decided not to go out, 
as it was late, so he ordered his luncheon to 
be served in his sitting-room. In the mean- 
time he read the newspaper, finished a letter 
to Chubb saying he had met the ladies of the 
Worthington family, that he was dining with 
them that night, and that he and they were 
already very good friends. 

310 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


Two hours later he was admitted to the 
house in Holies Street. He was shown at 
once into the library. Mrs. Worthington’s 
voice greeted him. 

“Theo will be down soon; but sit down 
and talk to me for a few minutes. Tell me 
what you have been doing.” 

“I am afraid I am here rather early,” re- 
turned Stephen, shaking hands with his 
hostess. “Doing — I? Nothing more serious 
than taking a solitary walk along the Em- 
bankment. It was beautiful, though, and I 
enjoyed it.” 

“I envy a man his independence. A woman 
could never do that sort of thing, because in 
the midst of her reverie she would be brought 
rudely down to earth by a gruff voice com- 
manding her to ‘move on.’ ” 

“The majesty of the law!” laughed Ste- 
phen. “Oh! it has no sense of the beautiful, 
and, besides, it is no respecter of persons — ” 

“Unless it happens to be a man,” suggest- 
ed she with a faint smile. 

“My dear Mrs. Worthington,” exclaimed 
Marlowe, in meek protest, “that is distinctly 

311 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


unfair to men as a class. Do you make no 
allowance for the individual?” 

“Oh, yes, I do,” she said, regarding him 
more gravely; “but let us be serious for a 
moment — ” 

Miss Worthington — ?” suggested Ste- 
phen, looking toward the door. 

“Was late in coming in,” replied her 
mother. “She went to the city for me, but 
arrived too late to find the man I wished to 
see; so she had to take a long drive to his 
residence, which is on the other side of the 
town, as it was necessary for me to see him 
on business to-night. He is Mr. Lumley 
Soames — ” 

“I know him,” said Stephen; “he is my 
solicitor. But I am sorry you have any worry 
that needs legal advice. You speak as if it 
were urgent. Is it?” 

“Yes — and no,” she said evasively. “I am 
a very ill woman, and I have sent for Mr. 
Soames to-night because I was told that my 
health made it imperative for me to make 
my will — which I have never done yet — 
without delay. Besides, there is Theo — in 
312 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


case I die suddenly I would like to feel that 
she is not only provided for, but that there 
is some one to look after her. Of course, Mr. 
Chubb—” 

“Yes, of course. You are ill? In what 
way? Who told you?” 

“Chance-Melville. He it was who told me, 
after I had begged him to tell me the truth, 
that my heart was very seriously affected.” 

“I am very sorry; but as I am your confi- 
dential adviser, would you care to tell me — • 
more in detail, you know — about what he 
said?” 

“I did not feel well,” she began, “after my 
husband’s death, and all the worry I had at 
that time. I thought nothing of it, putting 
it down to the strain I had been under. Rest 
and quiet, I thought, would be all that was 
necessary. But I did not improve; in fact, I 
knew I was slowly growing worse. I was 
not alarmed until I began to suffer from 
shortness of breath after exertion, and some- 
times pain, which I attributed to indigestion. 
One day I was attacked by faintness. I was 
alone at the time. When I recovered slight- 

313 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


ly I became really frightened, and I drank a 
small glass of brandy, which revived me so 
quickly that I was encouraged to believe I 
had foolishly made a mountain out of a mole 
hill. I did see a doctor in Paris, who treated 
me for indigestion, but the relief I obtained 
was only temporary, so I made up my mind 
when I came here to see a specialist. Chance- 
Melville’s name was the only one familiar to 
me, so I decided to consult him, never imag- 
ing for a moment that it was my heart that 
— but I am boring you, dear Mr. Mar- 
lowe—” 

“On the contrary, my dear madam, I have 
been most interested.” 

Mrs. Worthington began to speak again, 
and Stephen listened to her with an effort, 
which he tried hard to conceal. 

“You must say nothing of this to Theo,” 
she said, “for she knows nothing — absolutely 
nothing. Hush! Here she comes.” 

Stephen looked toward the girl with frank 
admiration as she paused for an instant in 
the doorway before entering the room. 

314 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“Mother^ — I’m so sorry. Mr. Marlowe, 
can you ever forgive me?” 

“You are not late, dear; but please ring 
the bell,” her mother said with a smile. Ste- 
phen laughed. When dinner was announced 
he offered his arm to Mrs. Worthing- 
ton. 

The next hour passed gaily. The dinner 
was excellent, and the absence of formality, 
the stimulus of Theo’s wit, made the time fly 
only too quickly. Soon he knew they would 
return to the library, where coffee would be 
served, and then — but he could get no fur- 
ther, for he longed to know when he could 
be alone with Theo. When would Soames 
come? How long would Mrs. Worthington 
remain? 

Coffee was brought in, and the empty cups 
had been replaced on the tray. 

When he felt that he could endure it no 
longer Mrs. Worthington arose. 

“I heard my maid come downstairs,” she 
said; “I told her to come shortly after nine. 
You will excuse me, Mr. Marlowe, if I say 
good-night. I shall not come down again 

315 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


to-night, for I must still be careful of my- 
self.” 

Stephen bent over her hand and thanked 
her for a very pleasant evening. 

“You will stay and entertain Theo, as I 
shall be engaged,” added Mrs. Worthington. 
“She will be alone. So stay and have mercy 
on her, won’t you?” 

Stephen said he would be delighted to do 
so, but to his surprise and discomfiture Theo 
stepped to her mother’s side. 

“I shall go with you, dear,” she said; “and 
then return to Mr. Marlowe. Will you ex- 
cuse me for a minute?” 

His mind was in a whirl. The respite 
would enable him to find himself. He was 
so agitated he was glad to be alone. The 
supreme moment of his happiness was soon 
to come, and yet he knew he would be glad 
when he had made his declaration. 

All at once he felt he had regained his bal- 
ance, his courage. He smiled with assur- 
ance. He was in a state of exaltation. The 
hour had come. It was now or never! He 
waited for her to return with eagerness. Just 
316 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


then the curtains parted and Theo came 
in. 

“I’ll ring and have the coffee taken 
away,” she said; “for I hate to see empty 
cups.” 

There was an awkward silence for a mo- 
ment. Then Theo, unable to stand the ten- 
sion any longer, was the first to speak. 

“My dear Mr. Marlowe, why are you so 
silent?” 

“I have a great deal to say to you,” he 
said, his voice trembling slightly, “but I 
don’t know where to begin.” 

“What is it about?” 

“Is it not curious,” pursued Stephen, as 
if awakening from a dream and scarcely con- 
scious that she had spoken, “that last week 
I imagined for one minute that I might 
never see you again?” 

“Yes,” replied Theo, breathing rather 
than speaking the word. 

“And now I ask you,” he inquired softly, 
“why to-day should end?” 

Theo gazed straight in front of her. 

“And why must it?” he persisted gently; 
317 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“why will you not have it go on like this — 
always we two together?” 

Theo did not move. Stephen pursued the 
advantage he felt he had gained. 

“You must,” he insisted, taking one of her 
hands timidly in his; “you will — ah, I know 
you will.” 

She did not draw away. Her mind wav- 
ered as if in soft reluctance. Stephen drew 
nearer. She did not resist. With the utmost 
gentleness he urged her to him. 

“My love — you do love me? Ah,” he cried 
passionately, as her head rested at last on 
his shoulder, “will you be my wife?” 

“I love you,” she murmured, her passion 
overcoming her; “you cannot guess how 
much.” 

Turning away suddenly she buried her 
face in the soft, cool cushion of the sofa near 
which she had been standing. He tenderly 
lifted her head, bent down as he turned more 
toward her, and kissed her. Then he drew 
her to him and kissed her cheek, her neck, 
and the white arm that hung loosely at her 
side. 


318 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“I love you,” she said softly, and threw 
both arms around his neck. 

Stephen closed his eyes for a moment in 
rapture. His cup of happiness was full to 
overflowing. After all, she was to be his. 

When he rose to go, for it was late, she 
clung to him, and would not have it. But he, 
gently resisting, drew away. Then, taking 
her again in his arms, murmured, “Good- 
night, beloved,” and she, with eager gaze, 
echoed, “Good-night;” then, “To-morrow 
you will come again — to-morrow.” 

Again he kissed her, softly releasing her 
arms, which were clasped about his neck; and 
so he left her, treading on air, as it seemed to 
him, for he was happy — happier than he had 
ever even dreamed he could be. 


319 












CHAPTER XXI 


THE DAWN OF TO-MORROW 

I T was not often that Stephen lunched 
in the hotel, but as he was going in a 
motor with Theo into the country to 
try and find a house where they should live 
after they were married he wished to fin- 
ish and leave early. It was not the first ex- 
pedition they had made, but he had heard of 
a house at Swindon he wanted Theo to see, 
one which he thought would suit. 

An hour later they were in the motor 
hound for the country. He breathed the 
freer air like a man who had been starved, 
and he turned a laughing face to the girl by 
his side. 

“What is it, Stephen?” she asked. “Won’t 
you tell me about it, too? You have no right 
to leave me out. We are one now, or soon 
shall be. It’s all the same thing, isn’t it? 


321 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


And we should be one in heart, mind and 
soul, you know.” 

“It’s only that I’m happy, dear,” he said, 
holding her hand in his and looking out of 
the window with a rapt expression on his 
face; “but I wish we could go on like this 
forever, and never reach the sea.” 

“The sea!” she exclaimed wonderingly; 
“what do you mean by the — sea?” 

“The place where we would have to 
stop — ” he smiled back at her; “you see,” he 
continued happily, “love has made a poet 
of me.” 

Theo looked softly at him, but was silent. 
The moment was too full of many things 
for speech. It would seem like a profanation 
to break such an exquisite silence; besides, 
she could not utter a sound; her heart was 
too full of happiness. She felt as if it must 
stifle her. She looked tenderly at him. It 
was all that she could do. 

They reached Slough and passed through 
it on their way to Reading; then skirting the 
Illsley Downs arrived at Swinden. 

The house stood at some distance from the 


322 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


highroad in its own grounds. They stopped 
at the lodge for a moment to speak to the 
keeper, and then, after passing along a mag- 
nificent avenue of tall shade trees, drew up 
at last before the house. 

“It is too lovely!” cried Theo, as she 
stepped out of the motor and looked about 
her; “but come, we must see everything.” 

Theo’s method of seeing everything was 
somewhat of a surprise to Stephen, for when 
the door was opened by the caretaker it was 
Theo who stepped in and took complete pos- 
session of her. 

“Now, Stephen,” said Theo with author- 
ity, “I want you to have a look at the stables 
and all that kind of thing — because that is 
your department — while I go over the house 
with — Mrs. — ” 

“Pinner, m’lady — Ma’am, and at your 
service.” 

“Very well, Mrs. Pinner, and I suppose 
you can tell me about everything — but is 
there any one to go with Mr. Marlowe?” 

“Yes, ma’am — m’lady, certingly,” replied 
Mrs. Pinner with a curtsey; “I was ’er late 
323 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


ladyship’s ’ousekeeper, and there ain’t much 
that I don’t know about this ’ouse, to say 
nothink of all it contains. Excuse me one 
minute, ma’am, and I’ll fetch my son. ’E’ll 
’ave the keys of heverythink — the stables, 
kennels, and the new motor-house; and the 
’ead gardener will show the gardens, green- 
’ouses, and all that department, sir.” 

The old woman bustled off, rattling her 
keys, and returned in a few minutes with 
her son, who touched his forehead and 
begged Stephen to follow him. 

“Theo,” said Stephen, “I hope you’ll find 
everything to please you, but — ” 

“You feel that you are being shunted 
off, don’t you, dear? But really you are not; 
it’s the only way — a division of labor, you 
know. You know more than I do about 
outside things, and I must be alone with 
Mrs. Pinner, or I should never get any real 
idea of the house at all. Just give me my 
head, dear, and — you’ll never regret it. You 
run along with young Pinner, and I am sure 
if there is anything you don’t know he’ll tell 
you all about it. Now, Mrs. Pinner, upstairs 
824 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


first, please; and you have your lists with 
you?” 

Stephen felt himself dismissed, so rather 
unwillingly he followed Peter Pinner, pre- 
tending to know all about stables, but in 
reality showing a deplorable ignorance, 
which amused Peter not a little. 

Meanwhile Theo proved that she knew 
her business thoroughly, for she was soon 
deep in verifying the inventory, counting 
the number of rooms, asking questions as to 
the number of servants required, and look- 
ing over the linen; so that, when she re- 
joined Stephen in the garden she startled 
him by saying that the house was perfectly 
satisfactory, and advised him to take it with- 
out delay. 

“It is just what we want,” she said de- 
cidedly, for she had proved herself the grey 
mare; “the linen, the plate, everything seems 
to be in excellent condition, and I have made 
out a list of things that would have to be 
got in town — some of the kitchen utensils 
need replenishing. But I should like to have 
the house, dear, if you approve of it.” 

325 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“Very well, sweetheart,” he said meekly, 
for he realized that resistance would be use- 
less when a woman, and she the woman he 
loved, had set her heart on anything. 

All this comedy was not lost on the gar- 
dener, for he recognized the old familiar 
signs of those who had become recently en- 
gaged and were soon to be married, so he 
smiled covertly, and turned away with a 
good-natured grin. 

“Let us go into the house again, for I 
want you to see it and tell me you are pleased 
with my choice. By the time we get through 
it will be tea-time, and after that I suppose 
we shall have to think of going hack to 
town. But — I wish we didn’t have to go,” 
she added wistfully. 

“We’ll he back soon, for I’ll see the agent 
to-morrow,” promised Stephen, “and then 
we’ll never have to leave until you get tired 
of it — or me.” 

“You foolish boy!” cried Theo, as she 
walked along toward the house by his side. 
“I believe you’re fishing for compliments; 
but it’s no use, for I’m not going to tell you.” 

326 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


Stephen listened with delight, while Theo 
explained all the arrangements she pro- 
posed making. 

“I believe you decided to have me take 
the house the minute you saw it,” suggested 
he slyly; “now confess, didn’t you?” 

“I wonder if I did? But I’m really not at 
all certain that you are right.” 

They descended the broad staircase to the 
hall, where a table was spread with bread and 
butter, jam and toast, and the kettle was al- 
ready singing. 

“There’s milk and sugar,” she said. “Per- 
haps you had better help yourself.” 

When tea was over Theo had a last mys- 
terious interview with Pinner, and then they 
took their departure homeward. She was 
very silent on the way back, and Stephen 
did not dare to interrupt her reverie. Unable 
at last to bear the silence any longer, he 
asked her what was the matter. Theo started 
slightly, but, recovering herself by an effort, 
replied that it was nothing. 

“But you are happy,” urged Marlowe un- 
easily; “you don’t regret — ” 

327 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“No, I don’t regret; what is there to re- 
gret — except that I have been almost too 
happy — it rather frightens me!” 

“And you are superstitious?” 

“That all won’t turn out as I hope it will? 
How foolish you are! Why shouldn’t it?” 


328 


CHAPTER XXII 


MARTHE WRITES A LETTER 

M ARTHE TESSIER had left Miss 
Benner’s service because she had 
been refused her request for an in- 
crease in wages. Since the actress’ retire- 
ment from the stage the maid had found her 
situation very dull. There was very little be- 
yond the routine work to be done, and be- 
sides, she missed the theatre with its life of 
change and excitement; and, being at times 
frankly bored, she found it more and more 
difficult to endure her mistress’ vagaries and 
moods. 

After the attempt to force an increase in 
wages had failed so signally, Marthe put her 
wits to work to see what her next move 
should he. Money had proved unavailing in 
the case of Miss Benner; then why not go 
back to the fountainhead of supplies and try 

329 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


there? Marlowe had been the original pay- 
master, so why could she not find some 
means to induce him to part with some of 
his cash now? He still had money, and why 
should she not have some of it? It was nec- 
essary to think over the situation and see 
what could be done. 

But first a motive. No, not a motive, for 
that suggested a crime — a reason, an induce- 
ment ! Marthe was proud of this word. She 
had played her second best card, but she had 
not decided to leave Miss Benner’s service 
until she knew where she stood. She was not 
the one to open the door and step blindly 
out. She would see if there was anything to 
step out on, and, more important still, any- 
thing to step out for. 

If she threw down her trump card, what 
would be the result? This trump card was 
none other than a scheme for extorting 
money from Marlowe. There were, to be 
sure, two methods she could employ to do 
this — one to throw herself on his generosity 
and hope for the best, the other to force the 
issue by a bolder stroke. 

330 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


Marthe was not influenced by moral con- 
siderations from deciding upon which course 
to pursue; she hesitated merely because she 
could not make up her mind which plan 
would be the more effective. The question 
was not, therefore, when she would act, but 
how she could act to the best advantage. 

The dramatic possibilities appealed to her 
strongly, and the natural impulsiveness of 
her nature made it easy for her to contem- 
plate this phase as a distinct and alluring so- 
lution of the problem. She would only be 
wasting time by seeing Marlowe and at- 
tempting to secure his generous aid to free 
her from a situation that was fast becoming 
intolerable. Marlowe, she knew, had had his 
eyes opened very effectively, since he had 
arrived in New York some six months ago, 
and it would not by any means be an easy 
task to throw sand in his eyes now. He knew 
too much in these days. 

It was a comparatively simple matter to 
write a letter to Marlowe and send it to the 
Hotel Ritz, where she had seen by the news- 
paper he was stopping. Her next move was 
331 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


to give Miss Benner warning, and then go 
to stay with her cousin in Tottenham Court 
Road for a few days; this latter address she 
had given in her communication to Mar- 
lowe. 

The letter was nothing less than an at- 
tempt at blackmail, and in it Marthe said 
among other things that unless the sum of 
two thousand pounds should be paid to her 
on or before a certain date, then Mademoi- 
selle Tessier would tell all his friends that 
the famous actress Louise Benner had been 
his mistress. He might not care to have this 
news made public, especially now — and the 
very simple alternative was to pay over the 
money without delay. 

The girl, being a foreigner, was not fa- 
miliar with the English law, or else she would 
not have tried this means of extorting money 
— she would not have dared; hut, knowing 
nothing of the consequences, she had not 
hesitated, for the very reason that she was 
thoroughly conversant with the weaker side 
of human nature. It never occurred to her 
that her victim would resist. 


332 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


Stephen received Marthe’s letter two days 
before the day set for his marriage. All the 
arrangements for his wedding had been 
completed. 

His mail was always placed on his break- 
fast tray in the sitting-room. On this par- 
ticular morning he came in late. His break- 
fast looked inviting. He sat down and 
spread out his napkin. He glanced over 
the letters; there were only two — one with a 
foreign stamp, the other with an English 
one. He threw them aside impatiently. 
They could wait. He was hungry. He must 
eat first. He did so, and with keen enjoy- 
ment. He lingered over his meal, but at 
last it came to an end. 

The last drop of coffee was drained. He 
pushed back his chair. He had the air of a 
man who is satisfied. He sighed contentedly 
and smiled. 

He took up the letter with the foreign 
stamp. It was from Rome — from Carla 
James. Ah! what a good woman she was! 
She understood him so well! He felt decid- 
edly better. After he had read her letter 

333 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


through he folded it and placed it on the 
tray. Then he took up the other letter and 
examined it curiously. The handwriting was 
not familiar. Could it be another anonymous 
letter? With a shrug of his shoulders he re- 
read its superscription. From whom could 
it be? 

He read it quickly, with an outward ap- 
pearance of calmness; he deliberately folded 
it up, then he rose abruptly. He paced the 
floor several times, tie was extremely agi- 
tated and uneasy. Marthe’s knowledge of 
human nature had not been at fault. 

Suddenly he rang the bell with consider- 
able violence. He requested that his servant 
be sent to him immediately. The man went 
out quickly in search of Jenkins, and Mar- 
lowe paced the floor more rapidly. He was 
flushed and angry. The door opened and 
Jenkins came in. He saw the necessity of 
pulling himself together. 

“I am going to the city; bring me my 
things.” 

“Quite so, sir; thank you, sir,” answered 
Jenkins. 


334 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


Half an hour later Marlowe alighted from 
a hansom in Chancery Lane. He made his 
way to Soames’ office. Luckily Soames was 
alone. 

“Mr. Marlowe!” he exclaimed, rising and 
coming forward. 

After relieving his client of his coat and 
stick, he waved him airily to a seat. 

Marlowe removed his hat, placed it on top 
of his coat, and seated himself. 

“Mr. Soames,” he said, producing Mar- 
the’s letter from his pocket, “I am going to 
be married the day after to-morrow, and 
look at that!” He placed the letter before 
the solicitor. “What am I to do?” he asked 
anxiously. 

Lumley Soames did not answer. He 
glanced apologetically at Marlowe; then, 
fixing his gold-rimmed spectacles more firm- 
ly on the bridge of his nose, adjusted the 
black ribbon which held them with extreme 
care, opened the letter and read it; his lips 
pursed, his eyes solemn. 

“I presume this is true,” he ventured at 
last; “ah! well — that doesn’t matter. Will 
335 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


you please sit here?” he continued, rising, 
“and I shall dictate a letter to you. This — 
person, I suppose — is — er — familiar with 
your handwriting? Yes? Well — er — are 
you ready? Then I shall begin. First the 
address, and then the date.” 

Marlowe obeyed and looked up inquiring- 
ly, wondering what was coming next. 

“Dear Madam,” dictated Soames, his 
eyes fixed on Stephen, “I received your let- 
ter, and must confess I was vastly surprised 
at the news it contained. You are perfectly 
correct in supposing that I do not wish this 
news to be known. If it is true, it would 
ruin me just at present. Will you make it 
convenient to call at my office to-day at a 
quarter to three o’clock punctually, and I 
shall give you a cheque — ” 

“Never!” cried Marlowe, throwing down 
his pen. 

“For two thousand pounds — on condi- 
tion,” continued the solicitor blandly, 
“that you, in return, agree to sign a paper 
pledging your immediate departure from 
England, and your promise never to return 

336 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


there, and to relinquish any claims you may 
have upon me now and forever.” 

“I will never consent!” 

“No?” asked his tormentor calmly; “why 
not? I should think that you would prefer 
Miss Tessier to take the consequences, 
rather than yourself. Trust me, for I shall 
not let you suffer. Follow my advice, and 
I promise you that you shall not. Believe 
me! It is the only way. I know this breed, 
and — ” 

“Very well, Mr. Soames; have it your 
own way,” and finishing the letter he signed 
it viciously. 

“You don’t understand — of course not,” 
rejoined Lumley Soames. “I quite see that; 
but come, let’s go out to luncheon and I 
shall tell you what you have to do.” 

The two men returned an hour later. 

“Everything is in readiness,” he remarked 
pleasantly, “even to your visiting card past- 
ed over my name-plate. I shall join the po- 
liceman. Don’t forget any of the instructions 
I have given you. That is very important. 
337 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


Unless you make a mistake, I don’t see how 
anything can go wrong.” 

“There’s many a slip,” quoted Stephen 
below his breath, as he found himself alone, 
and at that moment came a knock at the 
outer door. 

“Come in,” answered Stephen, and the 
door opened, admitting a woman dressed in 
black and heavily veiled. Her companion. 
Carpenter, closed the door and disappeared 
behind the screen, opening and closing a 
door leading into an inner apartment. 

The man and woman looked at each other. 
It was he who first spoke. 

“Pray be seated, Miss — Tessier,” he said 
suavely. 

“I have come — ” she began angrily. 

“One minute. You wrote me a very un- 
pleasant note this morning. I felt that this 
matter should he settled without delay.” 

“But certainly,” replied Marthe, throwing 
back her veil and looking fixedly at her an- 
tagonist. 

“I don’t mean that,” retorted Stephen 
338 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


coldly; “I — was referring to the — statement 
about — myself — that is — being — ” 

Marthe closed her bps with a decisive snap 
and Stephen frowned. 

“It is a matter of no importance, the truth 
of what you say — the main point is to close 
your mouth. You mentioned one way. Is 
there no other?” 

“No, none,” she answered firmly, and her 
eyes never wavered from his. 

“But I was kind to you once,” persisted 
Stephen, carrying out Soames’ instructions, 
and wondering whither they were taking 
him; “do you think it is fair — ” 

“Ah! I cannot concern myself with mo- 
tives,” exclaimed Marthe impatiently; “I 
have to think of how I am to live. I need 
money — you have it; I make you pay.” 

The eagerness was carefully repressed, hut 
Stephen shivered involuntarily, though, to 
the eye of Soames, who was furtively watch- 
ing the scene, the touch was really artistic. 

“And the — condition— you agree to that? 
Otherwise I refuse to pay. I may add that 
I acknowledge myself a fool to pay any- 

339 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


thing, for, if I do, I play into your hands and 
place myself in your power.” 

“If I sign that paper, and you pay — you 
will never see me again!” 

“Until the money is spent,” suggested 
Stephen; “and then — ” 

“No,” she shook her head; “for I would 
be a fool to put my hand into the lion’s 
mouth a second time.” 

“This thing must be stopped!” said Ste- 
phen. 

These were the first spontaneous words he 
had spoken, and she glanced at him sharply. 
His client was making use of an unstudied 
effect. Really, he must be careful. 

“I am glad you think that way,” she said, 
smiling. 

Stephen felt himself standing on the brink 
of an abyss. There were many things he did 
not understand. Soames had told him what 
he must do during the luncheon hour, but 
somehow he had not been able to grasp the 
full meaning of it all. The truth was that 
he had been rather confused, and the only 
thing that had been at all clear to him 

340 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


was the fact that he must pay over money. 

As he had just told the girl, the course 
seemed akin to absolute madness, for it 
would put him completely in her power; 
and that he most particularly wished to avoid 
at all costs. Yet here he was about to do 
what he had been advised, but that which his 
better nature and judgment told him was 
the worst thing possible under the circum- 
stances. He was distinctly in a quandary. 
His adviser was a solicitor, recommended by 
his own lawyer at home, and yet he hesi- 
tated at following his advice. What could 
it mean? Could it be that the man was try- 
ing to deceive him, and if so to what end? 
It could not be. The idea was impossible. 
But the cheque was to be paid. His cheque 
hook, the blue one, in the second left-hand 
drawer of the desk at which he was sitting! 

It was incredible, and yet it was clear. He 
could not understand it. But there could be 
no mistake, for Soames had not hesitated to 
make this business of the cheque book clear. 
He was forced to trust the solicitor. He 
had no one else. His own judgment would 

341 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


avail him nothing. He must pay! And then 
what? Well, he would trust to luck, as he 
had done many times before, and hope to 
win out. 

Was love, happiness, all that made life 
worth while to be snatched from him, be- 
cause of a sin that was past? 

But Soames had assured him he knew 
this breed, and that there was no other way. 
He looked up and met the woman’s eyes 
fastened on his. Her face was pale, but suf- 
fused with passion, and her eyes burned into 
his with an expression of hate. He flashed 
back anger for anger, as he pulled the 
drawer out and took up the cheque book. 
He opened it, and saw red for an instant. 
He could have killed this fiend as she sat 
there, expectant, gloating. 

He controlled himself, however, and wrote 
out the cheque,, signed it with a flourish 
carefully blotted it, and looked up. As he 
waited in indecision, the woman, taking ad- 
vantage of the moment, acted. With a quick 
spring she made a dash forward, striving to 
seize the cheque; but Marlowe caught her 
342 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


wrist, covering the cheque with his other 
hand. For an instant the two glared at each 
other. Then, releasing her hand, he pushed 
her back a step. Still keeping his right hand 
flat over the cheque, he handed the angry 
woman a pen, and indicated the paper for 
her to sign. As if caught in a trap, she 
stopped for a second, then seized the pen, 
for she saw that refusal would mean the 
failure of her plan, and, hastily reading the 
paper, signed it. Marlowe quickly took it 
from her, and raised his other hand, uncov- 
ering the cheque. With a cry the woman 
caught it up. 

She shrank back in alarm. 

Soames, coming forward, confronted 
her. 

“You shall go to prison for this,” he said 
sternly; “I am a solicitor, and this is my of- 
fice. You may not know it, but what you 
have done, or attempted to do, is an indict- 
able offence. Take her in custody — for safe- 
keeping,” he added to the policeman, who 
seized her and held her. “I shall attend to 
her later. And now listen to me, young 
343 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


woman! That cheque is not negotiable. Mr. 
Marlowe, without knowing it, signed one of 
mine. I purposely arranged that he should 
mistake the two books. He has no account 
at that hank. He acted by advice of counsel. 
You have made certain incriminating re- 
marks before witnesses, and you are clearly 
guilty. Mr. Marlowe holds a paper in which, 
over your signature, it is stated by you that 
you are paid in full by him, and that you 
promise to leave England — ” 

“Stop! I’ve had enough of this,” cried 
Marlowe; “you,” to Soames, “must settle 
this matter as you see fit. I leave it in your 
hands. Now take her away!” 

At these words Marthe, white with fury, 
broke away from the policeman, who had 
relaxed his vigilance momentarily, and, ad- 
vancing toward Marlowe, stood before 
him. 

“Thank you for — nothing,” she said, her 
voice trembling, and then, before any one 
could guess what she was about to do, tore 
up the cheque into small bits and threw the 
pieces of paper in his face. Then she laughed 
344 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


and turning away held out her hands to the 
policeman with an appealing smile. 

“You would not like your — Theo to 
know of this!” she said tauntingly. 


345 


































CHAPTER XXIII 


STEPHEN MISSES A VISITOR 

I T was a great relief to Stephen to get a 
thoroughly satisfactory letter from 
Soames the next morning. It came 
about mid-day, and said that Marthe, after 
a night in prison had been really frightened, 
and, being convinced that she had been un- 
wise in acting so hastily, had consented to 
go to the boat under the care of Carpenter. 
He it was who took her home, and then saw 
that she reached France. By Soames’ ad- 
vice, he had given her fifty pounds, and the 
sum, not being exorbitant, Mr. Marlowe 
might consider himself well rid of the wo- 
man, with little possibility of being troubled 
by her in the future. 

Stephen drew a long breath of relief. The 
previous day had been a trying one, but, 
strange to relate, he had slept well and 
347 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


awoke refreshed. This welcome news had 
cheered him and made him feel that life was 
indeed worth living. He wondered what 
Theo was doing, and whether she realized it 
was the day before their wedding! It was 
too wonderful. It was almost incomprehen- 
sible. 

He had had a bad scare, but, thank Hea- 
ven! that was all over. It had been unplea- 
sant while it lasted, but now, as he looked 
back on it, he forgot the seriousness of it. 

He no longer felt worried, either, for the 
storm-clouds had rolled away, and the sun 
was shining. 

To-morrow they would be one. To-mor- 
row they would meet to part no more, un- 
til one should be taken and the other left. 
To-morrow! Would that morning never 
dawn? Would the present day never die? 
The minutes dragged along. The hours 
were leaden and were centuries in passing! 
It would be twenty-four hours before he 
could see his beloved Theo again; a thou- 
sand aeons, it seemed to him. 

He looked across at the clock on the man- 


348 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


telpiece. It was almost time for luncheon, 
and he was glad, not because he was hungry, 
but because it made a break in the day! the 
interminable day! 

He took a few turns up and down the 
room. He must plan what he would do. It 
would never do to sit in his rooms for the 
rest of the day. He would go mad. He 
could not see his fiancee to-day. he had 
told him not to come. She would be too 
busy to see him. There were a thousand and 
one things she had to attend to, things that 
invariably had to be put off until the very 
last moment. She had to give final direc- 
tions about the packing, and here Stephen 
glanced sharply at the written page. Theo 
informed him she had heard from her old 
nurse she was dying, and in her letter she 
had inclosed her birth certificate, showing 
that she was the daughter of Alida and 
James Mason. 

His trunks were already packed and 
strapped, with the exception of his dressing- 
case, and the last tilings that could not be 
finished until the morning. There was 
349 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


nothing to do indoors, absolutely nothing. 
He would go out and lunch at some quiet 
restaurant, take a walk or drive afterward, 
and then return for tea. That would be the 
best plan. It would change the current of 
his thoughts and refresh him. This resolu- 
tion once taken, he opened the door into his 
bedroom, where Jenkins was engaged in fas- 
tening his hold-all together. 

“I shall be back for tea at five,” he said; 
“get my things now. I am going out.” 

“Straight away, sir,” replied the valet; 
and a few minutes later his master took his 
departure. 

Jenkins returned to his duties with a quiz- 
zical smile on his face. He examined the 
dressing-case, which had been done up, criti- 
cally. 

“Gold mountings! My eye!” he ex- 
claimed, with a sigh of reminiscent regret, 
“we are getting on a bit; a proper job they 
made of it — couldn’t have done it better my- 
self.” 

He blew a little speck of dust from one 
of the bottles, and replaced it in the case. 

350 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“Wonder how he’ll like married life,” he 
went on, as he moved about the room and 
finally stopped before an open trunk; “a 
mite different from the old days, I take it !” 
He examined and calculated the space left 
in the trunk. He had some articles to put in 
in the morning. 

“The suit he’s wearing can go there — and 
that corner for the clothes-bag. My gentle- 
man will he happy with his lady. She was 
good-looking and pleasant-spoken, too, the 
twice I saw her. Not but what I won’t be 
thinking it’s better for him and his money 
to have a wife; they’re not so much on the 
lookout for what’s what.” 

“We’ll settle down in a house — in the 
country,” he thought, as he folded a pair of 
trousers and placed them in the trunk, “and 
I’ll have more to do, more’s the pity; valet 
to a married man’ll be different from doing 
for him when he was single. Not that I’m 
complaining — only it won’t be the — same! 
No hotels — no fun, and all ship-shape — just 
family life. Well, it’ll be a change, and the 
maids may be sociable. A change is a good 

351 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


thing, time in and time out, though, and per- 
haps I’ll be able to put up with it. There’s 
no knowing. I ain’t denying that I won’t 
miss that Sarah, Lady Elphinstone’s maid 
— with her black eyes and her tantalizing 
ways. But no — marriage ain’t for me. It 
wouldn’t suit my arrangements.” 

Jenkins closed the trunk with a bang, as 
if to emphasize his remarks, and went into 
the sitting-room to see what time it was, for 
it was one of Marlowe’s peculiarities that 
he would not have a clock in his bedroom, 
as he said he was not accustomed to the 
noise it made, and it always kept him awake. 
He had a watch by his bed, so that if he 
waked during the night he could easily look 
at it. In the daytime it was very little trou- 
ble to walk into the other room. Other peo- 
ple could do as they pleased, but this was his 
way. 

Jenkins looked at the clock. It was five 
minutes to three. He had nothing to do, and 
as Mr. Marlowe would not be in until five 
o’clock, he might as well go out and get a 
breath of fresh air. 


352 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


He went into the other room to see if 
everything was in order, and, being satisfied 
that it was, locked the inner door, and re- 
turned to the sitting-room, intending to go 
out that way. 

Before leaving, Jenkins straightened out 
the papers on the desk, changed the position 
of a chair, poked the coal fire to make it burn 
more brightly, and slowly made his way 
across to the door leading to the hall, look- 
ing about him as he did so, to see that all 
was as Mr. Marlowe liked it. 

Absent-mindedly his hand felt for the 
handle of the door; but before he touched 
the metal knob, a knock from without made 
him start back suddenly. His hand dropped 
to his side. He was startled. Realizing that 
he must answer the summons, he stepped 
forward and opened the door. He could 
not imagine who it might be. A woman in 
a black bonnet, heavily veiled, and wearing a 
large cloak, stood before him. 

Before he could anticipate her intention, 
she had walked past him, and stopped in the 
middle of the floor. 


353 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“I wish to see Mr. Marlowe,” she said, in 
a queer, strained sort of voice; “they told 
me he was in. I am his — sister.” 

Jenkins did not answer. Indeed, he 
turned aside and closed the door. He was 
ready and able to deal with the situation. 
He came forward. 

“Quite so, madam; but he was not ex- 
pecting you until to-morrow.” 

Louise Benner moved to the mantel-piece 
and rested her arm on it. She was taken 
aback by the servant’s words, uttered so 
glibly, and felt the need of something solid 
to lean on. 

She had recognized the man at once, when 
she came in, but that he had evidently not 
the slightest idea who she was had been a re- 
lief, until the capping of her falsehood with 
another equally daring, made her uneasy, 
and suddenly she felt herself trembling 
slightly. The contact with the hard surface 
brought back her courage, but she realized 
the necessity of being on her guard. 

She had learnt of Marlowe’s whereabouts 
from Marthe, who, though they had parted 
354 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


on very indifferent terms, wrote to inform 
her that she was leaving England indefinite- 
ly. It was the postscript which had told her 
that her former lover was domiciled at the 
Ritz, a piece of news that was exceedingly 
welcome to her, and for which she was grate- 
ful, as he was the one person in the world 
whom she was extremely anxious to see at 
the present time. 

What she could not understand was the 
reason why Marthe had told her the pres- 
ent address of a man who she was so particu- 
larly desirous of meeting, for she certainly 
owed her mistress nothing. 

“Did he say to-morrow?” she inquired, as 
if irritated; that was unkind of him.” 

Jenkins maintained a discreet silence, 
waiting with characteristic patience for the 
further development of the object of this 
woman’s visit. He preferred to treat the 
lady as decidedly objectionable, until he was 
more sure of the part she was to play in the 
affairs of his master, who, at such an impor- 
tant crisis as the eve of his marriage, must 
and should be protected. 

355 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“As I am here,” she said, holding up a 
neat foot to the blaze, and speaking very 
casually, “I might as well remain until he 
comes — I suppose he will not be long now?” 

Jenkins coughed apologetically. 

“I am sorry to say,” he said, still cough- 
ing, but more faintly, “that he has gone for 
the — day, and will not return until — to- 
morrow!” His manner remained unchanged. 
He appeared to be waiting for her to speak. 

She thought over the situation for a few 
seconds. She looked at the man. His at- 
titude had not altered. Suddenly she be- 
came aware that she had no mean antagon- 
ist to deal with. Like most English serv- 
ants, he was faithful to his master’s inter- 
ests, and would defend him to the last 
moment. 

But she must see Marlowe. Yes, she 
would wait, and having made up her mind to 
this, she drew a chair and sat down. 

Jenkins saw that it was twenty-five min- 
utes to four. There was nothing to do; he 
could not turn her out bodily. Diplomacy 
was the only way. 


356 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“Is there anything else you would be 
wishing to say?” he said gently, “as I have 
some work to do.” 

“No, I am very comfortable here. If I 
need anything I will call.” 

The cool impertinent tone in which these 
last words were spoken, amused Jenkins in- 
stead of annoying him. He walked back 
into the bedroom once more; though he was 
extremely careful to leave the communicat- 
ing door wide open. 

Louise stared into the fire. A woman 
who has a definite object to carry out does 
not put down her head and try to rush it 
through. A man, on the other hand, is like 
a bull; he only knows he wants a thing, and 
being unable to brook opposition, carries the 
situation by storm. 

By and by, Louise began to look about 
her slowly. She tried to catch the slightest 
sound. She raised her veil and looked care- 
fully about her. After a moment she rose 
languidly, and stood by the mantelpiece, her 
head held stiffly, the chin raised, and the eyes 
half closed. She heard Jenkins in the other 


357 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


room. What was he doing? If she could 
only get a peep into that room without be- 
ing noticed. She advanced noiselessly to 
the centre of the sitting-room, and paused. 
She dropped her veil and smiled behind 
it. 

She moved forward a few steps. She 
could just see into the bedroom. A few 
more steps and, at last, she could see the 
servant bending over what looked like a 
dressing-bag. What could it mean? Was 
Stephen going away? Had she come too 
late? No, the man had said he might not 
be coming back until to-morrow. There was 
no time to be lost. If he were not coming 
back until to-morrow, she must write to him. 
If he came back — he would see it, and then 
what? 

It was a gamble, but it was worth risking. 
She walked to the window and looked out. 
She threw a casual glance toward the bed- 
room. She drew a sheet of paper to her, and 
began to write rapidly. The address was 
written in a rather shaky hand, but as she 
358 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


started on the note itself she grew calmer, 
and wrote more legibly. 

Five minutes later she got up and, with 
her veil once more drawn down, stood at the 
window. She heard a noise from the bed- 
room. Louisa did not move. Jenkins ap- 
peared in the doorway. He came in and 
looked at the clock. It was quarter past 
four. He re-entered the bedroom, and in a 
few minutes returned with the dressing-case 
in his hand. 

At the same moment Miss Benner moved 
across the room and installed herself in the 
chair by the fire. Her reverie had come to 
an end. Louisa looked up and met the eyes 
of the servant fixed upon her. 

“Mr. Marlowe will not be here to-day,” 
he said, “if he was coming, he would have 
been here by four.” 

“I don’t understand — ” she began un- 
easily. 

Louisa rose slowly to her feet. She tried 
to read his expression. It was impassive, 
and she could learn nothing. She could not 
359 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


prolong the silence forever. She realized 
her helplessness. She must trust to the let- 
ter. She bowed her head and, turning, 
walked toward the door. Jenkins opened it 
for her. Without looking at him again, she 
passed out. The man returned for the hag, 
and Louisa paused just long enough to see 
him quickly walk down the corridor; then 
she made her way to the left. 

Five minutes later the servant returned, 
unlocked the door of the sitting-room, placed 
the bag in the bedroom, and rang for the 
waiter. After tea was ordered, the valet 
unpacked the dressing-case, and, when the 
tray was brought and placed on a small table 
by the fire, he and the waiter went out. 

At five minutes to five Marlowe came in 
and closed the door. 

He made tea, and after he had drunk it, 
rose and lit a cigarette. He thought of 
Theo, and suddenly he felt that he must 
write her a line — just a line to tell her he was 
thinking of her. . . . He walked over to 
the desk. Two letters lay there. He took 
up one of them and read : 

360 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“Dear Stephen: 

“I am dying, but before the end comes, I 
must tell you the truth. I cannot hold it 
back any longer, now that death is so near. 
Your daughter lived with me as my niece, 
until last year. I falsely accused her of 
theft, and she left me to go on the stage. I 
have never seen her since. I am an old 
woman, and I am dying. I cannot write an- 
other letter. Will you do me a favour? If 
you should ever meet a young lady by the 
name of Majorie, who was adopted by Mrs. 
Camp, when she was five years old, give her 
the inclosed marriage certificate; the other 
paper is her birth certificate. 

“Her mother died when she was born, and 
the father begged me to take charge of the 
child. Shortly afterward his mind became 
unbalanced, and he is still in the asylum, 
where his case is pronounced hopeless and 
incurable. Don’t fail to tell their daughter 
all that I have told you, for I know that you 
often see her. 

“Good-bye, and forgive me for the de- 
ception I have practiced. I believed I was 

361 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


acting for the best. Perhaps it will come 
all right. I cannot write any more — I am 
too tired. 

“Your old friend, 

“Anne Jameson, 
“whom you knew in the old days as 

“Eliza Manson." 

Stephen pressed the letter to his lips. 
Then it had been his daughter, after all. 
And, Majorie — Theo — what a piece of news 
for her. He placed the letter in his pocket, 
took up the second envelope, and scanned 
it. He did not recognize the handwriting. 
With a quick movement he tore it open, and 
drew the letter out. 

“Dearest Stevie,” he began, and with a 
strange sinking feeling, he forced himself to 
go on to the end. 


362 


CHAPTER XXIV 


THE ELEVENTH HOUR 

* < T"\OOR girl,” he exclaimed, and sigh- 
ing, murmured gently the name 
written at the end of this extraor- 
dinary epistle: “Louisa.” The name did 
not recall pleasant memories, and in his 
heart he felt ashamed that he had ever had 
any associations with her at all. 

And when he remembered that he under- 
stood precisely the conditions under which 
he accepted Louisa, until he should tire of 
her, he smiled bitterly, and felt still more 
ashamed of himself, for had it not been a 
horrible bargain which he was forced to ac- 
cept in his ignorance of the world as it is? 

There had never been a question of love 
then. That was not in the bond. But — 
now at this late day, for Louisa to declare 
that she loved him. Nonsense. It was not 
in her nature, as he knew it. Besides, he 

363 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


himself was in love now, and that changed 
the whole world for him. 

“Why on earth has she fallen in love with 
me now? I thought she was absolutely in 
love 'with her art, and loved that alone. It 
was my money she needed, and I gave it to 
her generously. It has placed her where she 
wanted to be, hut now — well, she must go 
her way, wherever that may he, and I cer- 
tainly must follow where love for the first 
time calls me.” 

He tore up the letter, and threw the 
pieces into the fire. He looked steadily into 
the very heart of the flames they made, un- 
til the last shred was consumed, then, 
abruptly turned away, with a shrug of his 
shoulders. 

“There, that is over and done with,” he 
said. “I must think only of my future hap- 
piness with my Theo.” 

Suddenly a look of sadness overshadowed 
his face for he remembered that he still had 
to confess all. There must be nothing but 
trust between them, and then, ah, what 
then? 


364 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


When, later on, he faced the woman he 
loved, even then his courage did not fail. He 
had a duty to perform, and hard as it would 
be, he would drain his cup of bitterness to 
the dregs. 

“I have something to tell you — something 
you must hear.” 

“Wait,” she interposed quickly, “there is 
a letter you must read first;” and she held it 
out to him, with her clear, honest eyes fas- 
tened on his. 

Her face was white as death, but she wait- 
ed patiently without flinching while her eyes 
followed every movement of his. She no- 
ticed the change from mere interest to one 
of dawning horror. She knew that he had 
come to the end, when he quickly turned 
aside, and crushed the letter in his clenched 
fist. 

“That woman is a devil — she swore she 
would say nothing, ah, Marthe, I could kill 
you, but — Theo, this is cruel. I did not 
wish you to know this through another. I 
came here to tell you myself. I felt that no 
shadow of the past must stand between us. 

365 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


That is a closed chapter, dear — but — I am 
unworthy of you — I — 

She could not bear to look at him, his face 
was so full of anguish and suffering, but as 
he began to speak again, she listened breath- 
lessly, looking up at him, as if imploring 
him to be brief. 

“What I have just told you is an experi- 
ence, only differing in kind, that comes to 
almost every man. I came here to confess 
— all. There is more, and — will you listen 
to me?” 

Theo listened to his recital with hands 
tightly clenched in her lap. She kept her 
eyes averted, because she knew that Stephen 
was making an effort, probably the greatest 
effort of his life, to bring his story to an end 
before his courage failed him. 

He told her the history of his life, omit- 
ting neither faults nor failures, and when 
at last he ceased speaking, she did not move, 
for fear there might still be more to come. 

He placed a letter in her lap, and she 
looked up at her lover as if startled. “I 
wish you to read that letter,” he said quietly; 

366 


THE MERCY OF FATE 


“it contains two pieces of news — that may 
interest you — the latter especially. 

She opened the letter and read it through. 
“It was your daughter, then, after all, she 
said, her eyes still on the written page. “I 
am so sorry, but you did all you could. I 
cannot tell you how glad I am to know who 
I am.” 

She looked up to where Stephen had been 
standing, but he had moved to the door, and 
paused there dejectedly, with his hand on 
the knob. As she looked in his direction, he 
opened the door. 

“I am not worthy of you,” he said in a 
broken voice; “I must go.” 

Theo dropped the papers, and rushed in- 
to his arms. 

“You shall not go,” she cried passionately, 
“for I love you, I love you.” 

As he held her closely to him, the look of 
wonder in his face, fairly transfigured him. 
Then he said slowly: “My darling, I have 
indeed found my happiness at the eleventh 
hour.” 




































































